Purgatory
by Lossefalme
Summary: Saints Row 2: A collection of scenes from the PC POV detailing his reactions to certain pivotal events in the game. Finished! !SPOILERS!
1. Adrenaline

**A/N:** Rated M for language and violent action. All weapon and vehicle names are those used in the game, so hopefully you are somewhat familiar with them. If not, just use your imagination as I can't tell you well enough what everything is really supposed to be. This has not been beta'd, but I've edited myself quite carefully. Saints Row, Saints Row 2, and all its characters belong to Violition, Inc. and THQ, of course. Enjoy!

* * *

Adrenaline has a way of focusing your mind like nothing else can. And rage has a way of making you eerily invincible. Both poured hot through my veins, making my body shake, but my hands ever so steady... One by one, my .44 Shepard took them down, the deep crack of its steady fire echoing across the concrete street, against the sides of the oh-so-perfect houses in this nice, clean neighborhood.

One Ronin's brains splattered across his car's windshield and his friend ducked away, escaping my aim by a hair's breadth. I wished like hell for a grenade. Or a rocket launcher. I spared a glance down to Johnny, lying prone on the sidewalk, bleeding... bleeding too much. The purple of his shirt too dark where that Ronin lieutenant had stabbed him. His face too pale. Johnny would have a rocket launcher, I knew, hiding somewhere in Aisha's place -

Nausea rocked me and I barely choked back the bile. I kept seeing her body cuffed to that chair, the blood flung across the painting behind her. The sight had brought up feelings long dead - long buried - memories of being stuffed in a trunk with Lin, being shot, being dumped in the river, and Lin never making it to the surface...

The Shepard in my hands barked, another Ronin hit the street, creating his own pool of blood. Another fell, and another, and another. I was surrounded and out in the open, but I wasn't going to leave Johnny for them to finish off. I stood over him and didn't move, didn't even duck. Bullets whizzed by all around me; I could have been hit, but I felt nothing. Another thing about adrenaline and rage, they tend to make you numb.

In the distance I heard the unmistakable - disgusting - high-pitched whine of their bikes as more reinforcements rushed to the aid of their swiftly falling comrades. Then the sound of more cars, getting closer and closer. Where the hell was _my_ ride?!

I didn't dare make another call or glance at my watch. My full attention went to the Ronin as more and more of them pulled up, screeched to a halt, and opened fire. A brief surge of panic gripped my chest as somewhere in my head I calculated the abysmal odds of surviving this fight.

"Gotta save 'Iysh," Johnny mumbled thickly, and his words brought a new burst of rage that cut a swath through my momentary doubt.

I gripped the .44 in both hands and fired as fast as the chamber would allow. Its bullets found eyes, foreheads, brains, skulls. No more body shots. I didn't even think as I fired, acting from pure, insane hatred, vowing right then and there I'd personally see to it that every single Ronin who dared step foot into Stilwater would die.

At last came the rumble of a familiar engine; the clatter of an SMG mowed down the rest of the Ronin still standing and Carlos braked hard to a stop in front of me. His eyes were huge as he leapt from the driver's seat and came around to help me lift Johnny. The man's limp form was surprisingly heavy as we maneuvered him into the backseat as carefully as we could.

Carlos ran back around to the driver's seat, but I headed toward the house.

"What are you doing?" Carlos asked, nearly panicked. "We gotta get outta here!"

He was right. Already the pitch of more high-speed bikes and souped-up cars rolled over the surrounding streets, getting steadily louder. More Ronin would be here soon. Which was exactly why I needed what I was going to get. "I'll be right back," was the only explanation I offered, then ran inside Aisha's house to find Johnny's rocket launcher.

* * *

I stowed the rocket launcher on the floorboard of the backseat as we approached the hospital and silently congratulated myself on making one of my first orders of business putting a hospital in our pocket. The paramedics asked no questions as we pulled up and unloaded the nearly unconscious Johnny Gat, whose face had been plastered all over the news – along with mine – these past few weeks.

They put him on a stretcher and wheeled him straight into surgery. I watched their faces intently as we jogged through the ER; they looked concerned, but never showed the expression medical people get when they know someone's not going to make it. I exhaled finally; hadn't realized how little I'd been breathing since the moment Johnny'd gotten stabbed. "Johnny, you're gonna be fine," I told him, but I'm not sure he heard me.

"Gotta save 'Iysh," he repeated.

I stopped in my tracks; watched him be pushed away through the doors where I couldn't follow. I swallowed hard, anger boiling to the surface again. We couldn't save 'Iysh. It was too late for her. But it wasn't too late for Johnny. And when he got up and running again, the Ronin were going to have hell to pay. But in the meantime, I was going to gut the sonuvabitch who had done this to him.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Pierce. It was time to let the Ronin know I was through fucking around.

* * *


	2. Brothers

* * *

My review mirrors went flying as I scraped between a taxi and minivan at eighty miles an hour, but the health of my newly purchased and customized Attrazione was the least of my concerns at the moment. Horns blared behind me as both vehicles swerved away, but I'd already left them in the dust, pushing my speed gauge to one-hundred… one-twenty…

_Hang on, Carlos. _

Losing Aisha had been hard, almost losing Johnny had been worse. But just thinking about what the Brotherhood might be doing to Carlos right now was killing me. Maybe because I'd taken to thinking of Carlos almost like a little brother. Sure, I felt somewhat responsible for everyone I'd recruited, but it was different with him. Maybe because he was the first person I came to trust after waking up from my coma, or because he helped me break out of prison. Maybe it was just his youthful enthusiasm for the Saints, the way he tried so hard to do his job despite his painful inexperience. For whatever reason, he'd never annoyed me the way some of the other lieutenants had. His failures never bothered me the way they should have.

It probably could have been said I had a soft spot for Carlos.

I ground my teeth, yanking the wheel hard right to turn for the docks. Tires squealed, smoked; the engine roared as I gunned it down the dirt path. _Hang on, Carlos._

The Brotherhood wanted to play dirty? Fine. They thought radioactive waste in tattoo ink was bad? They didn't know the pain I'd rain down on them for this…

I saw a huge Brotherhood truck rumbling in my direction; it turned right as I approached and something dragged from a chain behind it. My heart rammed into my throat and I jerked the wheel left to follow it, shot past it, then braked hard across the road. It didn't slow - it sped up. They thought they could run over my sleek little car with their big, bad truck.

Well. I had a little surprise for them. I got out and reached into the backseat, pulling out Johnny's rocket launcher. I settled it on my shoulder; my heart slammed so hard in my chest I could barely breathe. The anticipation nearly choked me as the driver's face slowly came into focus. His eyes went wide as he finally realized what I was going to do and he tried to swerve out of the way, but his stupid truck was too big and slow.

I pulled the trigger. And ducked.

The truck blew apart in a spectacular explosion, doors and tires went flying and the glass in all my Attrazione's windows shattered. I dropped the rocket launcher and ran to the smoking remains of the Brotherhood truck, approaching the back end more worried than I cared to admit.

I hesitated just before rounding the bumper, an intense fear of what I would see gripping me hard enough to make me feel sick. I swallowed hard, drew a deep breath, and forced myself forward.

It was like a bullet in the chest. At first I thought he was already dead. He was a bloody mess. But then I saw the barest rise and fall of his ribs and ran to his side, dropping to my knees. I reached out and gently rolled him over. He cried out like I'd kicked him, and that's when I knew it was bad. Really bad.

I couldn't look at his face. Couldn't bear to think this had happened to him, that I had come too late. I stood up and went to the truck's hitch, but the Brotherhood had rigged it somehow. The chain wasn't coming off. In a blind rage I kicked at it. Kicked at it with all my might. Kicked at it like it was Maero's face. Jessica's face. Donnie's face. I was going to kill them all for this…

My knees gave out eventually and I hit the street, choking back a noise I didn't recognize as coming from myself. It sounded like a sob.

I pushed myself to my feet, breathing in hard, panting gasps. I went back to Carlos; the dread in my chest intensified at the look of the padlock holding the chain around his ankles. I pulled carefully at the loops to see how tight they were, but they were brutal – nothing short of amputation or a key would free him.

In desperation I searched out the charred remains of Maero's men, attempting to find the keys. It was hopeless. Their clothes were burned and melted to their skin; I found nothing even resembling a set of keys. Maybe they hadn't had the keys in the first place. Maybe Maero had planned it this way.

Maybe that's why it hadn't been Maero or his precious Jessica driving. They knew I'd find Carlos eventually. They were just banking on the fact I'd find him too late – or if it wasn't too late, it'd take me long enough to separate him from the chain that it'd become too late. If only I had something to cut the lock with…something besides that goddamn rocket launcher or my pistol…

I looked at Carlos and grimaced. He was sprawled out, gasping and trembling; covered in dirt and oil, nearly all the skin ripped from his arms, his pants torn and bloody. Why did it have to be him? He didn't deserve this. Not Carlos.

I knelt by his side again, the knot of a horrible, cold certainty settling in my gut. His eyes shifted toward me, but didn't focus. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. He reached up weakly with one hand and I caught it, gripped it hard. Emotion welled suddenly in my throat and I was glad my sunglasses hid my rapid attempts to blink back tears.

I was too late. I knew it; had known it since I'd first rounded the bumper. Carlos knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes. But he wasn't angry. He didn't blame me for failing him.

He should have - this was my fault. I should have expected retaliation from the Brotherhood; should have planned for it, should have been ready for it. I should have pulled Carlos off the assignment as soon as I'd learned he wasn't quite ready to be a lieutenant yet. Not quite ready to be on his own. I should have never left him alone…

He clenched his teeth as his body shuddered; another cry of pain wrenched from his throat and I winced at the sound of it. I looked back at the chain, then to him. He'd never make it to a hospital, even if I could get someone out here to cut the lock.

I swallowed hard, reaching back for the pistol I kept tucked in my waistband.

Thunder rolled across the sky; the storm that had been brewing all afternoon began gently, releasing a steady rain to splatter on the dirt, to dot the blood-smeared asphalt. I brought up the pistol, but never took my eyes off Carlos. He looked right at me. Never made a noise, never made a motion, to stop me. I hoped like hell he couldn't see how badly my hand shook as I leveled the .44 at his head.

There were things I wanted to say to him, too many things. _Thank you, I'm sorry, forgive me…_ but the words didn't get past my head. My mouth remained tightly shut, my jaw clenched – the only thing keeping the agony tearing up my insides from bursting out into the open.

He was scared. Terrified. And every second I hesitated drew out his torture. I couldn't stand it…. The shot shattered the quiet and rolled out over the surrounding streets, but the echo was swallowed by another crack of thunder. The sky darkened, the rain came down harder, cold against the back of my neck and my knees as it started to soak through my pants. Carlos' limp hand slipped from my grip, falling to the street. His blood washed away in little rivulets of water, snaking around me, surrounding me, staining my knees red where it touched me.

I stared at the water blankly, thinking nothing. Feeling nothing. I blinked and the heat that slipped down my face surprised me. But I ignored that, too. I lifted my head finally, slowly, looking east toward the docks the Brotherhood called home. I suddenly wanted to get the rocket launcher and blow them all to hell.

I wrestled the impulse under control only with great difficulty. That was too good for them, I finally convinced myself. Too quick, too easy. For this, I would have to get Maero where it really hurt…

The distant whine of police sirens finally stirred me from my stupor. I stood stiffly, looking at Carlos but not really seeing him. The rain came in torrents now, as if trying to wash away what had happened. I tried to let it, pulling off my sunglasses and turning my face upward. The storm poured over me, drenching me, driving away the remaining tears so it seemed they'd never come.

I turned woodenly from the wreckage and the body and walked away. I don't know how long I walked, or where. I didn't care. I didn't care that my three-thousand-dollar suit was ruined, or that the rocket launcher still lay in the middle of the street, or that I'd left the keys in the Att. If someone wanted to steal it, they could have it.

Aisha's death and Johnny's stabbing had left me livid, ready to murder. Carlos' death just left me empty. Maybe it had come too soon after the incident at Aisha's. Maybe it was just because I had pulled the trigger myself. But I felt drained. Exhausted.

Eventually I stopped walking and looked around. There was an Apollo's across the street and I took shelter under its front awning, leaning back against the wall as I pulled out my cell phone. I stared at it for awhile, gathering myself, trying to get back the man I'd been just that morning. I finally took a deep breath and dialed.

"S'up, boss?"

"Shaundi…" I stopped at the sound of my voice and cleared my throat. But she'd already noticed.

"Whoa, boss. You okay? You sound terrible."

I closed my eyes, ran my hand over my face. "Carlos is dead," I said.

Silence hung between us for a long time. "Shit," she finally whispered.

"I need you to bring me a car," I continued wearily. "And a tow truck. And something to cut a padlock with." I half-expected her to make some wry comment like she usually did. Or at least ask more questions.

But all she said was, "Where are you?"

I glanced at the nearest street sign. "At the Apollo's on 30th."

"I'm on my way."

"Good." I hung up and settled myself down to waiting. I wondered if the cops had found his body yet; if they were cutting him loose themselves, if they planned on taking him to the city morgue. It didn't matter what they were planning. Once Shaundi arrived with the needed supplies, we would get him wherever he was and bring him back to be buried as a Saint.

I put my sunglasses back on and gazed through the storm toward the docks, already constructing my plan for revenge.

* * *


	3. Burial

* * *

The little bastard ran.

We took off after him; if I hadn't needed to reload I could've filled his back with bullets. Johnny still had a full clip; I imagine his excuse would have something to do with the bandage still wrapped around his middle. That, or he was too pissed off to see straight.

I slapped a new clip into my Gal 43 and lifted it, taking aim at Shogo's swiftly retreating figure. I had a bead on his head when a shiny yellow Z90 careened off the street into the cemetery, aiming right for us. I jumped out of the way, hit the ground on my shoulder and rolled up onto one knee, taking out the driver before he could step out of the car. The three other Ronin in the vehicle leapt out and took cover behind the doors, but Johnny and I made short work of them.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Shogo break in the door of a nearby house and disappear inside. I scowled as more Ronin reinforcements pulled up, cutting us off from their cowardly leader. Johnny opened fire immediately. I looked over at him, noted the merciless calm of his face, the methodical way he picked off the enemy one by one. Another look at the Ronin quickly taking cover behind tombstones and trees, and I knew Gat could handle them by himself.

I was going to get that piece-of-shit Shogo before he managed to escape. I'd be damned if he got away now after we were so close to catching him, after he practically walked himself right into our arms.

I ducked from one tombstone to another, taking cover amid the rainstorm of bullets when I could. Fortunately, it seemed the Ronin were more skilled with their swords than with guns; I took out the few still standing in my way easily enough and got out of the cemetery without so much as a graze. I ran for the house Shogo had hid in just as the garage door opened. A motorcycle engine revved, and then the kid peeled out of the garage and onto the street, heading straight in my direction.

I planted my feet and took aim. Shogo saw me and made a hasty u-turn, nearly falling off his bike as he did so. It was exactly the opportunity I needed. I fired a short burst that chewed up his back tire; when he hit the gas again the bike swerved wildly and he lost control, slamming into a nearby tree.

I reached him just as he untangled himself from the motorcycle's wreckage. He scrambled to his feet, the look on his face clearly indicating he had fully expected to get away. _Not today_, I thought grimly, and brought the butt of my gun hard across his temple. He dropped heavily, but remained conscious. Better that way, anyway. Johnny wanted to have a little chat with him…

Shogo rolled onto his side with a groan, one hand going to the line of blood dripping down the side of his face. "You're going to pay for that," he snarled gruffly.

"Unlikely," I grunted, reaching down to pull the samurai sword from the sheath on his back. He glanced up at me, brief panic flashing across his features, but then it disappeared again as I tossed the sword aside. Likely he thought I would be the one to decide his fate. Maybe he thought I would hold him for ransom from his father, or some such.

He was wrong. But I saw no reason to tell him that. Let him feel safe for now. He'd figure it out soon enough.

I grabbed the back of his yellow and black leather jacket, hauling him roughly to his feet. He stumbled, caught himself, and took a swing at my face. I caught his fist and twisted his arm around behind his back until he cried out. My other hand gripped the back of his neck hard enough to make him wince.

"I know someone who wants to see you," I said, my voice low and dangerous. I pushed him forward, forcing him back into the now-eerily-silent cemetery, past the bodies of his men, back to where Johnny stood waiting patiently, as if he'd known my plan all along.

Shogo tried to break free of my grip, but he was relatively small and I thwarted his attempts with little effort. He got more desperate the closer we got to Johnny, and I could see why. Gat's face was as stormy as the sky behind him; even shaded behind his glasses his eyes were cold and deadly.

"Where are you taking me?" Shogo demanded, wrenching himself sideways so that I almost lost my grip on him. I didn't bother answering. He knew exactly where I was taking him. He was starting to feel the panic again, starting to realize he wasn't safe at all. He balked, tripped as I pushed him forward, and fell to one knee. "Let go of me!" he shrieked.

I felt obliged to comply; I was tired of wrestling with him. I pulled the kid to his feet again and threw him toward Johnny, who promptly clotheslined him. Shogo hit the ground hard on his back and lay dazed.

"Get up," Johnny growled.

I lifted my eyebrows. I'd never heard Gat sound like that. It almost made me feel sorry for the kid. Almost. Until I remembered he'd been the one who ordered the attack on Johnny and Aisha. A grim satisfaction settled coldly in my chest as Shogo struggled to his feet and faced Gat again. I had no reason to worry that Shogo would get off easy. Johnny would be sure the bastard got what he deserved. I turned my back on the two of them and scanned the horizon to keep a look out for cops or more Ronin, leaving Gat to his vengeance.

I heard a blocked blow, a sickening crack, and a cry from Shogo. Then a thump as a body hit the ground.

"Get up," Johnny ordered again.

_You shouldn't have interrupted the funeral, kid_. _If you just would have waited, he might have killed you quickly. _

I allowed myself to smile, knowing that when it came right down to it, this ending was much more gratifying.

* * *

Shogo never stopped begging for his life. Or rather, never stopped begging for death - a quick death. Johnny ignored the screaming, the pleading, his face expressionless as he continued to shovel dirt over the coffin. It didn't take long for both of us to bury it, finally drowning Shogo's frantic cries, the incessant pounding on the coffin's lid.

Gat threw his shovel away, then walked over to a nearby tree and leaned against it, one hand going to his side. It suddenly struck me he'd only been released from the hospital – well, evacuated, more like – a few days ago.

"You okay?" I asked.

He nodded wordlessly, then glanced at the body of the woman he'd displaced when finding a casket for Shogo.

I shook my head. "No, don't worry about it. I got it." He was right; we couldn't just leave her body out in the open. Someone would get suspicious, start investigating, and probably dig up the Ronin bastard before he actually suffocated. I called one of the newer recruits and told them to meet us at the cemetery for a little clean-up.

"Thanks," Johnny muttered.

I knew what he meant. Not just for cleaning up his mess, but for bringing him Shogo. For letting him finish his unfinished business with the Ronin. I gave him a nod. "Hey, no problem. But you'd better take it easy for a few days. You're no good to me all fucked up."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Trust me, I'm fine."

We made our way to my Hammerhead, which thankfully had been parked far enough away from the battle to escape being riddled with bullets. I noticed he was limping slightly and cleared my throat. "You know, the doctor did say you should wait a few weeks before taking on a task like burying someone alive. Well, he didn't exactly say burying someone alive –"

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny cut in. "I know what you mean." He climbed into the car and leaned back in the seat, exhaling loudly. "Let's just get back to the hideout. I've had enough of this place."

"You got it." I saw the recruit I'd called approaching and waved him down, told him to get rid of the woman's body and get more people out to clean up the rest of Ronin that lay all over the place. He went off to carry out my orders, and we left the cemetery.

Neither of us looked back.

* * *


	4. Pieces

* * *

I woke with a start, my hand automatically reaching for the .44 on the nightstand. Its familiar weight in my hand reassured me as I sat up in the bed, looking around the room groggily. It was empty, quiet. I blinked, trying to wake up, my mind slowly grasping reality again as I realized I'd been dreaming.

No, having nightmares.

I rubbed a hand vigorously over my face, trying to scrub away the images of Carlos' face as I'd pulled the trigger, the sight of his body lying in the middle of the street, the blood staining my suit. It wasn't the first time that day had haunted me in my sleep. Sometimes I wondered if I'd ever have a whole night's rest again. But there was something else I had relived in my dreams… something I actually hadn't thought about in weeks: The explosion on Hughes' yacht.

I moved to stand up, but stopped abruptly after swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I looked down at myself and frowned. I was… naked. I glanced over my shoulder and saw two girls, still deeply asleep, occupying the rest of the expansive mattress. I lifted one eyebrow. How had I forgotten about that?

I shook my head, throwing aside the sheets and moving to gather my scattered clothing. I dressed quickly, stuck the .44 in the back of my waistband, and left the room. Our underground hideout was always crowded, even more so now that those who weren't out on assignment had been working on fixing the place up. And they'd done a damn fine job, too. Anyone who saw the place now would never believe it'd used to be a stinking, dirty, damp refuge for the city's homeless bums.

I padded barefoot across the hall's purple carpeting, walking to the railing that looked down over the main concourse, the part that had once been the abandoned hotel's lobby. It was still crowded, with people wearing Saint's purple sprawled everywhere… but it was a lot quieter at four-thirty in the morning. They were all sleeping. Anywhere they could find a place. The floor, the couches, the bar… I sighed, wondering why the hell some of them just couldn't go back home for the night. Not all of them were wanted by the police.

Soft noises behind me caught my attention and I spun around, gun drawn. I faced the doors leading to the room I'd designated my office; saw movement inside near the desk. I took a few steps inside, squinting in the dim purple glow given off by one of the tube lights on the wall.

I finally got close enough to see what was going on and lowered the gun. "Pierce?"

"Shit!" he squawked, springing to his feet, shirtless and holding his pants up with one hand. "What the hell, man, don't sneak up on me like that!"

"The fuck do you think you're doing?"

The prostitute he'd been rolling around with peeked out over the top of the desk, giving me a coy smile. But I was in no mood. Pierce glanced down at her, then back to me. "I was just, you know –"

"Take it somewhere else," I snapped.

"Aw, come on, I was just – "

"_Now_."

"Man, why you gotta be like that?"

"You ever see anyone else here fucking on my desk?"

"It's not like that – "

I hefted the gun in my hand. "Pierce –"

"Okay, okay. I got it." He gestured to the woman still crouching near my very nice leather chair. "Come on, girl. Let's go somewhere a little more friendly."

The two of them edged around me and made for the door, the girl tossing me a slightly nervous backward glance. "Outside," I called after them, not making it a suggestion. Pierce shook his head once, but changed his direction to angle for the door that led to the stairwells. And that was just fine with me.

I heaved another sigh and stuck the gun back in my waistband, proceeding down the cold marble stairs and across the main lounge to the bar. I shoved one very-passed-out Saint out of my way; he hit a bar stool and then rolled heavily onto the floor. I winced as he hit the carpet, but he just mumbled a bit and went back to sleep. _That'll hurt in the morning._

I wished I knew what he'd been drinking. I took a guess based on the bottles still left out on the counter and made myself something strong, taking the glass to the nearest couch, where I had to push another two people out of my way just to sit down. I leaned back and sipped my drink, trying to relax. Trying to forget my nightmares.

It wasn't working.

My mind kept going back to the explosion on the yacht. When I'd first woken up from the coma and discovered where I was and how I'd gotten there, figuring out what the hell had gone wrong was the only thing that mattered. But once I'd escaped Stilwater Correctional and realized how long I'd been gone, how much the city had changed… once it struck home the Saints had really disbanded – or been arrested, or killed… Well, my priorities changed.

And anyway, I couldn't take on a whole city by myself.

Now the Saints were back full force, and gaining ground over the other gangs. We'd taken their territories, their businesses, their money. It was only a matter of time before they crumbled and the Saints once again took charge of Stilwater. And now that first question kept nagging me. What happened on Hughes' yacht?

I didn't remember much of it, unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately, given the extent of my injuries. I'd looked up the newspapers and police reports from that day… it wasn't pretty. The only thing I could recall myself was some of my conversation with the fat bastard Hughes – some bullshit about "salting the earth" - and a notion of running for the deck's railing as if I were going to jump overboard. Then nothing. Next thing I knew, I woke up in prison five years later.

I took another swallow of my drink, studying the burn scars that crisscrossed my forearms. No one seemed to know even now if the explosion had been an accident or planned. But I was the only one who survived it. And the memory of running for the rail persisted. Vague, but lingering in a way that made me think it was real. Which meant I must have had some kind of warning before the boat exploded.

Having warning meant it wasn't an accident.

But who the hell would have wanted Hughes dead? Besides myself, of course, and the rest of the Saints…

My eyes narrowed as my train of thought led me to a place I'd tried to avoid. _No_, I told myself again, for at least the hundredth time. _They all knew where I went. They all knew I was meeting with Hughes. They wouldn't have planted an explosive knowing it would blow me up, too._

Unless….

"_Those two were soldiers, they knew the risk."_ Julius' words echoed in my mind and I felt my body growing a strange sort of cold.

Bait. They used me as bait to get Hughes where they wanted him, to be sure he'd die. They sacrificed me to destroy the last person standing in their way of total city-wide domination. But only Julius would have the authority to order such a thing, no one else would dare do something so bold without first getting his approval. And Julius had been arrested before my meeting with Hughes. The whole reason for the meeting in the first place was to get Julius back.

I'd thought.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers going to massage my forehead as if I could physically rearrange the pieces of the puzzle. How could Julius have ordered such a thing if he was under arrest? Or had he even been arrested? And if he had ordered it, where was he now? Why order such a thing and then disappear, allowing your crew to fall apart and the city to be overtaken once again by rival gangs?

"You're up early this morning."

The voice startled me and I snapped my eyes open, my hand reaching back to curl around the .44's grip before I stopped myself. Shaundi stood in front of me, hands on her hips, an expectant look on her face. I glared at her. "Jesus Christ, Shaundi, you trying to get shot?"

She smirked, crossing her arms. "Oh come on, boss. I usually can't even sneak up on you. Kind of slow this morning, aren't we?"

I scowled, settling back into the couch and taking another large swallow of my drink. "What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you usually stay with your boyfriend?"

She shrugged. "We got in a fight yesterday. Thought I'd crash here."

I raised an eyebrow. "Want me to kill him?"

She smiled. "Not just yet. But I'll let you know if that changes. And thanks for the offer."

I gave her a nod, then turned my attention back to my drink. She didn't take the hint. Instead she shoved another girl off the couch across from me and took a seat.

"So, what's up?" she asked.

I barely suppressed an exasperated sigh. "I'm having a drink. What are _you_ doing?"

"I had to pee," she said bluntly. "Obviously there weren't enough women involved in the planning of this hideout - there aren't _nearly_ enough bathrooms down here. You have to walk all the way –"

"I get it," I said, pressing my cold glass to my head.

"So I was headed back to my couch when I saw you sitting in here, looking… troubled."

"Troubled?"

"Or… something. So what's up?"

I looked at her; she looked right back, waiting patiently. I tried to decide if I should tell her what was on my mind, maybe get someone else's view of it. A part of me was hesitant to share, but then again, Shaundi was probably the best person to discuss it with, if it was going to be discussed. And maybe I had missed something during my five-year absence, something that could make sense of what had happened… why it seemed I had been betrayed by the people I'd considered family.

"What do you know about the explosion of Alderman Hughes' yacht?" I finally asked.

She raised her eyebrows. "That? Not much. I'd just started college not too long before. So I wasn't, you know, really concerned with what happened to a mayoral candidate. I heard the report on the news… heard that the presumed second-in-command of the Third Street Saints – you, obviously – had been found unconscious and half-drowned by the rescue team and were being transported to a hospital in critical condition." She shrugged. "That's pretty much it, though."

"Did you ever hear anything about Julius?"

"Hrm. You know, I don't think I did. I remember I kept waiting to hear more about the Saints, because I thought that with you being blown up and all they'd have some sort of retaliation plan in the works. But after that… things just got kinda quiet. I never really heard anything else about Julius, never even heard anything about the Saints until the other gangs moved in, and then it was just about the Saints breaking apart. I always thought that was a little strange."

_Yeah, me too._ I swirled my drink in the glass, took a sip. "You been to the renovated church?"

"I've driven by it a few times..."

"I went inside," I said, looking up at her again. "Gat was right, it's a tourist trap. Got lots of gaudy plaques up telling the story of how the Row used to be nothing but a den of violence and prostitution. How Alderman Hughes had a plan to clean it up, how Ultor made that plan a reality."

Shaundi arched one eyebrow, echoing my sentiments.

"Yeah, but even worse…" I shook my head, still hardly able to believe it, and ran a hand over the stubble on my jaw. "The worst thing is that at these plaques, you can hit a button to have someone basically summarize them for you."

"_Lame_," Shaundi muttered.

"It was Julius," I nearly spat. "_Julius_ reading them. Julius preaching about the greatness of Ultor and how he'd put his history with the Saints behind him."

Her eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open. "Wow."

"No shit." I stood from the couch, a rush of anger making me restless. I paced back and forth between the various sleeping bodies as I talked. "I think he's involved with Ultor somehow. I think he _was_ involved with Ultor even then."

"Wait, what? Even when?"

"Five years ago. When I met with Hughes on his yacht. I thought Julius had been arrested. Hughes called me and said he wanted a meeting, said something about Julius being there. But when I showed up there was no sign of Julius, and Hughes told me he planned to off me. Then his boat exploded, he died and I almost died."

Shaundi blinked. "How does that have anything to do with Julius working with Ultor?"

"The explosion wasn't an accident. I know it wasn't, because I remember trying to get off the boat. And there's no one else who would want Hughes dead besides the Saints. Besides Julius."

Shaundi frowned. "So you think Julius planted a bomb?"

"Maybe he didn't plant it, but he ordered it. No one else would have done it without his permission."

"You don't think someone would have objected to you being blown up? I mean, those were people you hung with for a long time…"

I let out a snort of disgust. "Yeah. One was an undercover cop, one a sellout to a corporation that leveled Saints Row, one – the _leader_ – disappeared and let his boys be arrested or killed, and the rest dropped their flags rather than fight for their colors. Some bunch of assholes they were." I threw back the rest of my drink and set the glass down on the table between us, running my hands through my hair.

"What about Gat?"

I shook my head. "They must have left him out of the loop. He would have said something by now if he knew anything."

"So… if Julius was working with Ultor, why would he want Hughes dead? It was Hughes' plan Ultor used to rebuild Stilwater."

"Maybe he wanted _me_ dead," I said, the idea coming suddenly. "Maybe that's why he disappeared and let the Saints fall apart. So the Row could be bulldozed. So Ultor could build their pretty little town." Just the thought of it made me want to hunt Julius down, wherever he was, and smash his face in.

"Look, boss," Shaundi said, standing from her couch and stretching, "I think you should take a break from all this. You know, relax a little."

I shot her a glare. "Relax? Are you fucking insane? Did you hear _anything_ I just said?"

"So we'll figure it out. But you've got the Brotherhood, Ronin, and Samedi to deal with, too. One thing at a time, right?"

I turned to face her, opening my mouth to remind her that finding out why my own people tried to blow me the fuck up was very important, but she interrupted me.

"You wanted to pay Troy a visit sometime, right? So we'll clean up the rest of the city first and then you can go find Troy and maybe he'll know something."

"And what if he doesn't?"

She took hold of my arm lightly and steered me back to the couch, indicating for me to sit down. For some reason, I did. She moved to stand behind me and started massaging my shoulders.

"Geez, boss, you really gotta relax."

"Shaundi –," I started to stand up again but she shoved me back down into the seat, then tossed me her pipe and a small bag of Loa Dust.

"Try that, it'll help."

I eyed the things skeptically and shook my head, pushing them away. "No thanks. That shit gives me a headache."

She hissed a breath between her teeth, digging into my shoulders hard enough that I almost winced. "That was the aluminum bat you took across the face, not the Dust."

"Well, whatever. It's a bad memory."

She sighed. "You gotta stop worrying so much. We've hurt the Samedi bad, gotten rid of the Akuji kid, and killed Maero's girlfriend. Things are going good for us."

"I guess."

"As soon as all this other shit is over, Pierce and I will look into that explosion for you. Okay?"

"That would be great."

"Good." She stopped massaging abruptly and I suddenly realized how nice it had felt. I kind of wished she'd keep it up. But I wasn't going to tell her that.

"Now, I'm going back to bed," she said. She snatched her pipe and Dust from the couch and headed off for the side room, waving over her shoulder. "Night, boss."

I picked up my empty glass and suppressed a sigh, not sure that talk had helped at all. "Night, Shaundi."

* * *


	5. Expectations

* * *

I was just starting to think I might actually be in serious trouble this time when the constant, deafening roar of the minigun dissipated into a high-pitched whine. Several repeated clicks told me all I needed to know – Maero was out of bullets. I acknowledged my insanely good luck only briefly before stepping out from behind the last remaining undestroyed cover on the roof and changing out my own empty clip. I slapped in a new magazine and lifted the Vice 9, a smirk playing across my face despite myself.

He thought he could escape? Mow me down with that ridiculous gun? Now he had nowhere left to run, and his boys were downstairs getting murdered by my Saints. The smirk turned into a grin.

He hurled the entire minigun at me and I barely dodged out of the way, watching as it rolled across the roof and feeling a slightly alarming wave of awe. Admittedly, I had a bad habit of underestimating his strength.

I turned back around only to come face-to-face with Maero's tattooed chest. I stepped back hastily and lifted my pistol, but his fist came down hard across my wrist and my fingers went numb; the Vice skittered away far out of reach. I looked up at the massive man standing in front of me and swallowed hard. He smiled in a way that made my stomach turn.

_Fuck._

He reached out suddenly and caught me around the neck, lifting me off the ground with disturbing ease. My feet kicked the air as my fingers pried desperately at his hold on my throat; my mind racing, trying to think of a way to get out of this very bad situation. I cursed myself for coming up here alone, for always trying to do everything myself, for getting cocky –

He landed two heavy blows into my ribs and the pain that shocked through my chest cut off what little air I could get. I gagged, the cry coming out a strangled cough. Black crept in around the edges of my vision, Maero's leering face slowly dimming. I renewed my efforts to squirm out of his grasp, but it was impossible. His hand was like a vice, crushing my windpipe, squeezing the life out of me.

I thought he would strangle me to death, but then he shifted his weight and body-slammed me to the roof. My head cracked into the metal sheeting and white exploded across my sight. I tried to roll over, to get up while I had the chance, but I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I lay there gasping and helpless as Maero loomed over me.

He reached down, caught the front of my suit in both hands, and lifted me halfway sitting - only to slam me back against the roof. Again. And again. The roof gave way suddenly and I felt myself falling; vaguely realized Maero was falling, too. I crashed into a set of pipes and reached out, trying to catch on, but my reflexes were still too slow and I rolled off, plummeting another floor or so before my body jarred into something else, and everything went black.

* * *

I came to slowly. Painfully. My head pounded mercilessly and every breath sent a web of agony tearing through my lungs. I grimaced, a hand going to my side, then my head. My fingers came away bloody. I pushed myself to my hands and knees, trying to crawl away from the wreckage of the ceiling and get my bearings. Another spike of pain stabbed into my side and I collapsed back to the floor, grinding my teeth to keep from crying out. I had a few cracked ribs at least, that was certain.

I took a deep, careful breath and pushed myself up again. An arm hooked around my neck and pulled me back against an unyielding wall of muscle I knew could only be one man. His arm flexed, effectively cutting off the blood flow to my brain. My already oxygen-starved and battered body willed me to give in, to let the darkness overtake me.

But I fought it, pulling vainly at Maero's arm, trying to loosen it just enough to suck in a bare thread of air.

"Your little buddy screamed like a bitch when we trussed him up," Maero growled in my ear, and the image of Carlos lying dead in the street burned in front of my eyes. A hot flare of rage leapt in my chest, washing away all awareness of my own pain.

"What about you, bitch?" Maero snarled. "You gonna scream, too?"

His left hand came toward my face, but I reached out and caught his wrist; saw he gripped a tattoo iron equipped with needle. I threw my head backwards as hard as I could, satisfied at the crunch of my skull meeting his nose. Maero grunted, his arm fell away from my neck and the iron clattered to the floor.

I dove for it, grabbed it, and started to twist around. Maero's fist connected with my face; my head snapped around and I fell back to the floor, lights flashing in front of my eyes again. It took a great deal of effort to keep myself conscious, but I clung to the memory of what he'd done to Carlos and the anger refocused my reeling head. I kicked out, catching Maero's knee. He gave a cry, clutching at it, and I took my chance.

I lunged from the floor, took the tattoo gun in both hands, and plunged the needle into the soft area between his neck and shoulder. He screamed; I dug it in, ground it, twisted it, desperately trying to find some vital artery. He just had too much muscle… I pulled out the needle, kicked him flat to the floor, and punched him twice in the face just for good measure. I lifted the needle again, aiming for the area with the least protection – his eye.

His hands caught my wrists with only inches to spare. I pushed with all my might, but Maero was at least twice my size. Even with the hole oozing blood from his shoulder, he was able to keep the needle point at bay. My ribs screamed at me to stop; every heartbeat made my head feel like it would explode. But I couldn't let go. If he got up again, if I let him get the upper hand, he would end it. I wasn't going to get another chance…

Vaguely I recognized the approaching sound of guns, the familiar whooping victory calls of people I knew. A fresh rush of confidence strengthened my efforts to send the tattoo needle through Maero's eye. My boys were coming. They'd be here any minute, and then the big motherfucker didn't have a chance –

An angry cry marked a blur of motion and something barreled into me, knocking me off Maero and landing on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

"Maero, get outta here!" a voice shouted.

I knew that voice. I scowled up at Matt, the Feed Dog's former lead guitarist. I made a move to stab him but he thwarted my attempt, holding my wrist to the floor while his free hand – still wrapped in bandages – went for my throat. I'd had enough of being choked, and Maero was getting away. I reached out with my left hand, groping for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

I found a brick.

A blow to Matt's temple put him out cold; he slid bonelessly to the floor and didn't move. I rolled to my feet, swayed, steadied myself. I glared down at him_. Guess you're mixed up in their shit now, ain't you?_ If he wanted to be part of their little gang, I'd treat him as such. I hurled the brick at his head, making sure he'd never get up, and turned my attention back to Maero.

His heavy footsteps were quickly fading.

I took off after him, stumbling, limping. _Fuck_, my whole body hurt. I burst from the warehouse onto the street just in time to see Maero throw himself into the back of a Brotherhood truck at Donnie's urgent request. The tires squealed as Donnie hit the gas, and the truck sped swiftly out of sight.

I stopped running, knowing it was useless. I leaned over, still gasping, trying to catch my breath despite the hooks of pain digging into my ribs. Blood dripped down my chin from where Maero's fist had met my lip. I wiped at it absently with the back of my hand, still staring off at the spot where he and Donnie had disappeared.

Now that the fight was over, I started to feel again. The pulsing bruise on my temple, my swelling lip, the pressure on my lungs, the taste of blood, the nauseating headache… I hit my knees, doubling over, trying my hardest not to be sick.

I heard footsteps behind me; saw familiar sneakers rush to my side. Shaundi.

"Whoa, boss, you okay?"

I forced myself to straighten up just as Pierce appeared on my other side, flanked by several others I recognized but didn't quite remember. "I've been better," I muttered hoarsely, and spit blood into the dirt.

"Maero got away," Pierce said, and I could tell by his tone he was pissed. I was pissed, too.

"I know," I said. "But he's got nowhere to run. And we killed most his guys. We'll find him again."

"Yeah, I hope you're right." Pierce rested his assault rifle over one shoulder and reached down with the other hand to help me up.

"I _am_ right," I growled, barely biting back a grimace as I got back to my feet.

"C'mon, boss," Shaundi said. "Let's get you back to the hideout, get you fixed up."

That sounded like a very good idea. I nodded to her, then looked at Pierce. "Lock down this warehouse," I ordered. "Make sure there aren't any Brotherhood left hiding. Make sure Maero can't come back here without hell comin' down around his ears."

Pierce smiled. "With pleasure."

* * *

Three hours later I reclined on one of the couches in the hideout, ice packs over the deepening bruises on my ribs and head, swimming in the feel-good state of some pretty powerful pain-killers we'd picked up from our contact at the hospital. The place was quiet for once; I'd kicked almost everyone out so their loud music and conversation wouldn't worsen my headache. It was nice, actually. I'd have to start kicking people out more often. There was just something peaceful about lying in the silent, expansive room, bathed in purple light…

Or it could have just been the pain-killers.

My cell phone rang, startling me from a half-sleep. I grumbled unhappily, looking around for it; saw it resting on the edge of the circular table near my couch. I reached for it, couldn't quite get to it. I'd have to sit up to get it, and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. I watched it ring for a second, wondering how important the call could be. Did I really need to answer it?

Johnny came in from the side room, shaking his head as he crossed the main lobby. "Lazy bastard." He scooped up my phone and looked at it. His eyebrows shot up.

"You'd better take this," he said, handing me the phone.

I took it with some hesitation, then looked at the caller ID. _Carlos._

The fire that burned through me at seeing the name made me forget the peaceful solitude of the hideout, the comfortableness of the pain-killers, the nearly black bruises on my body. I hit the answer button and put the phone to my ear. "What the fuck do you want?" I sounded like Gat at the cemetery.

"Get your ass to the Ultor Dome," Maero growled in reply. "We finish this _now_."

Then a click as he hung up. I tossed the phone back to the table, swearing.

"What?" Johnny asked.

"Maero's at the Ultor Dome."

Johnny pulled an uzi seemingly out of nowhere. "What the hell are we waiting for, then? Let's go get the fucker."

I began pulling the ice packs off my ribs, tossing them to the table as well. Shaundi wandered over from the bar, wanting to be included. "Gat," I started, "what does the Brotherhood do at the Ultor Dome?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Some stupid shit with big trucks."

I sat up carefully, looking at him. "Yeah, exactly. Some stupid shit with big trucks. Why do you think he's there now? Why do you think he wants me to meet him there? So he can have his fucking_ truck_."

Johnny frowned. "Yeah, you're right. We're going to need something bigger." He stuck the uzi back in his pants and moved for the garage. "I'll get a rocket launcher."

I rolled my eyes in exasperation and stood up with barely a wince. Those pain-killers really worked. But there was still a tightness in my chest that would make dodging a monster truck much harder. "Johnny…"

He stopped and turned to face me. "Yeah?"

"I need something I can hide under my suit. I don't want him to know I've got something that can blow up his truck."

The other man's brows drew down to hood his eyes. "Whoever said anything about _you_? You really think I'm gonna let you go out there alone in the shape you're in? What, you been smoking some of Shaundi's Dust?"

"Damn straight I'm going alone," I said evenly. "This is my fight."

"Uh, excuse me, but isn't that what got you into trouble at the warehouse?"

"It's different this time."

Gat crossed his arms. "Yeah? How so?"

"I know what to expect."

He nodded. "A huge motherfucker in a huge motherfucking truck. Right, exactly. You need backup."

"No." I stalked toward him, only slightly limping, and shouldered past him to enter the garage on my own. I opened one of the many cases stacked along the wall and pulled out an AR-50 and a few grenades.

Johnny and Shaundi followed me, looking over my shoulder.

"So that's your plan?" Gat asked. "A rifle and some grenades. C'mon, seriously. At least let me bring the rocket launcher and hide somewhere. Then if looks like you need help, I can help."

I loaded the grenades into the rifle's top-mounted chute. "No."

"Boss," Shaundi chipped in, "maybe it would be better if –"

"_No_." I finished loading the rifle and its accompanying grenade launcher, then turned and made my way toward the stairs to go get properly dressed.

I heard Johnny mutter behind me as I walked away, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

* * *

The smell of churned dirt, truck exhaust, and burning rubber choked the air as I made my way back toward the arena door. I tried not to breathe too deeply; I'd already had one coughing fit and it'd almost made me pass out – thanks to my fucking ribs. The pain-killers were wearing off… it was all I could do to get back across to the door. Though I had no idea how I was supposed to open it – Maero had one of his crew lock it right after I'd walked in. Even if it hadn't of been locked, I had no idea where the controls were to lift it. And I wasn't sure I could make it up the ridiculous amount of stairs to investigate the stands.

I leaned back against the concrete spectator wall, looking out over the scene of carnage that littered the arena. Brotherhood trucks were everywhere, in pieces, hardly anything more than twisted, blackened frames. My eyes inevitably went back to Maero's vehicle. The biggest one, and the hardest to bring down.

A few times, I'd wished I'd let Johnny come with that rocket launcher. The AR-50 worked fine, but I hadn't planned on having to blow up _six _trucks. And my aim with grenades wasn't perfect. I'd used them all up on just three of the cars. And Maero and his last two cronies didn't fuck around after that.

If not for the randomly placed concrete barriers throughout the arena, I'd have been splattered across the dirt a long time ago.

But none of that mattered now. Maero was dead. The Brotherhood was finished.

The giant garage door behind me suddenly exploded in a burst of flame and smoke. I choked on a cry of surprise and spun to face it; a stab of pain in my chest wrenched another cry from me and I fell back to my knees. The smoke cleared slowly, revealing a jagged hole through which stepped a silhouette I'd have recognized anywhere.

I pushed myself back to my feet, a smile pulling at my mouth despite myself.

The rocket launcher rested casually over his shoulder as Johnny Gat stepped through into the arena and surveyed the wreckage spread before him. "Fuck," he spat. "I missed it?"

I made the smile disappear before he turned to face me. "I told you I could handle it."

He studied me for a minute, then arched one eyebrow and nodded. "Yeah. I guess you did." He sighed, glanced out toward Maero's truck. "But you look like shit."

I grunted. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." A silence stretched out between us and I could almost see him reconstructing the battle in his head, wishing he'd gotten to blow up at least _one_ of the Brotherhood trucks.

I started for the hole he'd made in the door. "You know… there's bound to be some Brotherhood still hiding somewhere around town. Think you could find them for me and put that rocket launcher to good use?"

Johnny turned to follow me; I glanced over my shoulder to see him smiling. "Hey, _now _you're talking sense," he said, the well-known eagerness back in his voice.

"Good. Then let's get the hell outta here. I'm overdue for another dose of meds."

Gat chuckled. "Yeah, I bet you are. Crazy bastard. Remind me never to piss you off."

* * *


	6. Eavesdropping

* * *

The two officers watching the traffic monitors swiveled in their chairs at the sound of Shaundi and I entering their little darkened room. I nodded cordially, tugging the brim of my hat further down over my face. Someone was going to recognize me eventually – how we'd made it this far I had no idea. My face was plastered on every bulletin board in the station. How dumb could these cops possibly be?

"Who are you?" the one to my right asked, looking me up and down suspiciously. They always looked at me. Shaundi, apparently, could have walked in holding a bomb and no one would have noticed 'cause she was just a cute, harmless girl. Though I suppose that usually worked to our advantage…

"We're here to fix the monitors," Shaundi said, ridiculously cheerful.

The cop to our left squinted at us. "There's nothing wrong with the monitors."

"Sure there is," I said, moving toward the box of equipment Shaundi held and opening it. "I got the work order right here…" I shuffled stuff around, pretending to get the piece of paper that would authorize our presence, but really I just grabbed the silenced Vice 9 I'd hidden beneath Shaundi's supplies. I pulled it out in one smooth motion; shot both officers in the head before they'd even reached for their own weapons.

I raised my eyebrows. "Hrm. That was easy."

Shaundi set the box of stuff down, shaking her head. "Yeah, as long as no one else comes by and notices they're dead."

I glanced behind us. Unfortunately, the room's walls were full of huge, expansive windows that looked out into the hall. We'd shut the door, but anyone who happened to walk by could look in. Unless… I stepped forward and quickly closed the blinds. Then I turned the officers' chairs back around to face the bank of monitor screens. The blood wasn't so visible in the dim lighting; from the doorway it almost looked like they were still alive and diligently going about their duties.

"There," I said. "We'll just have to hope no one gets too curious."

Shaundi was already busy setting up the equipment. "And if they _do_ get too curious?"

I shrugged. "Then I'll shoot 'em."

"Boss, you _do_ remember we're in a _police _station, right?"

"Hey, this was _your _stupid idea. It's not my fault you didn't consider all the potential problems of marching into a building full of police."

She shot me a glare. "You didn't think it was a stupid idea when we were hijacking the repair van."

I crossed my arms. "Yes I did. I just didn't say so because I'm tired of never knowing where that sonuvabitch so-called General is."

"So then shut up and let me work."

"Fine. Just make it fast."

She sighed indignantly, but said nothing else as she turned her back on me and started fiddling with an extremely complicated-looking setup of wires and gadgets. I stood near the door, gun semi-hidden but ready, and fidgeted impatiently.

Truth be told, I wasn't very focused on the fact this camera tap would make it easier to find the General. Instead, I found myself thinking of Troy Bradshaw. I'd seen the sign pointing the way to his office on our way to the monitor room, and it'd taken every bit of self-control I had to pass it by. The lying, traitorous bastard was in this building… so close… and I was stuck babysitting Shaundi till she finished her electronics job.

I began to pace back and forth in front of the door, thinking of the things I'd like to do to Troy for his betrayal and the questions I'd ask to finally get some answers about what the hell happened five years ago. I checked my watch almost every five minutes; finally, after a little more than half-an-hour, Shaundi stood up stiffly and stretched.

"All done," she announced.

"Great. Pack up your stuff." I peeked through the blinds to look up and down the hallway outside. It was clear. A part of me thought this whole operation had been far too easy. But I had a feeling shit was about to hit the fan.

Because I wasn't leaving without talking to Troy.

Shaundi appeared at my side, the box of equipment in her arms. I slipped the Vice 9 into my jumpsuit pocket. "All right, follow me," I said. I opened the door, slid out into the hall, and headed straight for Troy's office.

Shaundi hesitated before jogging to catch up. "Boss," she whispered urgently, "where the hell are you going? The exit is _that_ way!"

"I need to talk to Troy," I muttered.

"What! Right now? Are you crazy? What happened to one thing at a time?"

I shrugged. "Fuck it."

She sputtered for an argument, looking around at the various officers who casually roamed up and down the central set of stairs and surrounding halls. "Boss," she whispered, "if you start trouble… I can't shoot a gun with this shit in my hands."

That was kind of a good point. I stopped and looked down at her. "Then take that shit back to the van and wait for me. Be ready to drive."

"You can't just stay in here alone!" she hissed. "There's gotta be almost a hundred cops in here; you're way outnumbered."

"And two against a hundred ain't much better than one against a hundred. Anyway, if I get into trouble I can use Troy as a human shield." The thought made me smile and Shaundi shook her head.

"Boss –"

"Do it, Shaundi," I snapped, dropping the conversational tone and making it an order.

She pursed her lips, but knew better than to push it. "Just be careful," she said, and then she turned and made her way down the stairs toward the front door. She threw me a last, disapproving look, but I ignored her.

I continued toward Troy's office eagerly. I felt my breathing quicken as I entered the detective unit and shut the door behind me.

A bank of cubicles faced me; to my left another wall of windows with blinds drawn, the writing on the single door reading "Chief of Police". My smile returned. I stalked toward the office, my hand slipping into my pocket to grip the Vice. I had almost reached the door when a young woman stepped in front of me, eclipsing my view of Troy's neatly labeled name and jarring me from my predatory concentration.

"Excuse me, may I help you?"

I blinked at her. She was small-framed with long, dark hair and large brown eyes. Her clothes suggested she was a secretary, or receptionist, or maybe even an intern. She would have been pretty if she wasn't blocking my path to a piece of revenge.

"Yes," I said stiffly, deciding it would be easier to keep up the charade as long as possible. "I need to speak with Chief Bradshaw."

She frowned, eyeing me like she should have known who I was. "I'm sorry; Chief Bradshaw isn't here at the moment. Did you have an appointment?"

My eyes narrowed. What did she mean he wasn't here? My fists clenched and unclenched. "Where is he, then?"

"I'm sorry, sir, if you want to see him, you'll have to set up an –" She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes growing wide and mouth hanging open. "Oh my God," she whispered, taking a quick step backwards, "it's _you_!"

I moved forward suddenly and hooked an arm around her neck, pulling her against me as the Vice came out of my pocket to rest against her head. "Scream and you die," I whispered.

Leave it to some secretary to recognize me…

Her body went rigid, but she didn't scream. Five heads appeared above the cubicle walls at the commotion anyway; four of them were armed detectives who immediately stepped out from their desks with guns drawn. The fifth ducked down behind his cubicle wall again.

"Drop your weapons," I said in a low, calm voice, "or I'll shoot her. And you know I'll do it." As a general rule I left innocent bystanders alone - unless they tried to keep me from doing something I wanted, in which case they ceased to be innocent bystanders, or unless some stupid cop, FBI agent, or SWAT team forced me to take drastic measures. I banked on the fact that being a part of the police force, they knew I'd follow through if I had to.

The three younger detectives looked to the oldest one, who nodded. The four of them slowly squatted down to place their guns on the floor, then stood again, hands raised in surrender.

"Kick them over here," I said. Four NR4's spun across the floor to rest at my feet. "Thanks," I quipped, and promptly shot all four detectives. The girl I held hostage let out a shriek of terror; I brought the Vice's muzzle back to point at her jaw, reminding her to be quiet. Shooting the detectives was more an act of necessity than choice; there was nowhere suitable to lock them up and I couldn't risk them getting away to alert the rest of the station. Because I still wasn't leaving without getting something for my troubles.

The fifth guy bolted from his cubicle, aiming for the door. I shot him twice in the back and he crashed to the floor in a heap, the spreading blood stains bright against his crisp white shirt. I felt the girl trembling against me and glanced at her to see tears running down her face. I turned her around to face Troy's office. "He shouldn't have run," I muttered, and kicked in the door.

I drug her inside with me, closed the door again, and shoved her down into the nearest chair. "What's your name?" I asked, looking around the office with a mixture of hatred and disgust.

"Laura," she whispered, barely audible.

"All right, listen, Laura. You sit there and don't move, don't make a sound, and you won't end up like your friends out there. Got it?"

She nodded vigorously; I looked at her hard for a second, trying to determine if she was one of those people who might like to be a hero rather than stay alive. I didn't think so. I turned my attention to the office, glancing over the neatly stacked paperwork, the huge Stilwater Police Department's seal on the wall, the framed certificates of achievement, the Distinguished Service award in the corner. My first impulse was to destroy everything, but my desire to find answers eventually over-powered my Gat-like lust for destruction. I put the Vice back in my pocket.

I started with the papers on Troy's desk, sorting through them, looking for anything interesting. I found nothing. I tried the file cabinets next, not bothering to be neat, tossing papers left and right while occasionally checking to make sure Laura was still behaving.

She'd finally stopped crying and sat huddled in the chair like she expected me to shoot her the first chance I got. She stared at the floor every time I looked at her, but from the corner of my eye I could tell she watched me like a hawk when she thought I couldn't see.

The file cabinets turned up nothing. I swore, knowing my time was running out, and went back to the desk. I tried the drawers, finally coming to one that was locked. I blew out the lock with a shot from the Vice and pulled it open. More files. I flipped through them half-heartedly, my hopes of finding anything helpful swiftly fading.

Until I came across a folder labeled "Julius Little". I froze, my breath catching. I stared at it for a good minute, hardly daring to touch it. But at last I made myself pull it out. I sat down in Troy's chair; everything else in the room vanished from existence as I flipped the folder open. I ignored the tremble in my fingers as I turned the pages; my eyes skimmed the typed reports almost too fast for my brain to comprehend.

His file mentioned he'd been arrested five years ago, four days before my meeting with Hughes. That was how I remembered it at least; the then-Chief-of-Police Monroe and Alderman Hughes had thought it amusing to hold Julius' arrest over our heads during those four days and make us do some of their dirty work for them. At least the fuckers had gotten what they deserved.

But then… then there was mention of things I'd never known, never heard about, things I found almost impossible to believe even as I read about them. Conversations between Dex and Troy, Troy and Julius, conversations that had been recorded and dutifully stored away. Finally I realized I wasn't even reading anymore, but staring at the transcripts in a blind rage. My hands balled into painful fists; I could hear my own harsh breathing.

I looked up to Laura sitting across from me and she immediately shrank down in the chair. I picked up the papers containing the written copies of the telephone conversations and stood from the desk, holding them out toward her. "Where are these tapes?" I demanded, not recognizing my own voice.

Her eyes grew huge, staring at me, then flicked down to look at the papers.

"These tapes," I repeated, jabbing the paper with one finger and then pulling out my gun again, pointing it at her head. "Find me these tapes or I'm gonna leave Troy some new office decoration."

She squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering, and her shoulders shook with sobs. I caught a fistful of her shirt and yanked her to her feet, pressing the Vice to her neck.

"Okay, okay!" she squeaked. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" I released her; she drew a deep, shaky breath and pointed to the office door. "They're in the cabinet in the next room," she whispered.

I motioned with the gun. "Lead the way."

She did so, moving very slowly, looking over her shoulder at me every few steps. We reached the large gray file cabinet and she took a ring of keys off her belt with shaking hands. She unlocked one of the drawers, pulled it open, and sorted through the rows of audio tapes, at last selecting three different ones. She shut the drawer and turned, holding the tapes out to me.

"I want to listen to them," I snapped.

She nodded silently, tears still running over her lashes, and led me to the listening booth and accompanying headphones. I snatched the tapes from her, put the oldest dated one in the player, and pulled the headphones over my ears. I pressed 'play', my heart pounding in my ears as the initial burst of static settled into a crackling and then a click, followed by voices.

Dex and Troy. Saying the same things I'd read on paper. Saying what Johnny had told me after I'd first freed him from death row, what the asshole Vogel had mentioned when he'd dropped by the hideout: that Dex had taken a job with Ultor. But it wasn't how I'd imagined it went down. Dex seemed sickeningly eager, seemed to jump at the chance to get out, and he'd known Troy was a cop. He'd known, and done nothing about it.

If I ever found either of them –

A gunshot barked from somewhere behind me and the tape player exploded in a burst of sparks. I jumped away from it, yanking off the headphones and spinning around with my own weapon at the ready. I looked straight at Laura, who stood facing me with one of the detectives' NR4's gripped in both white-knuckled hands. I stared at her.

She fired again; blazing pain ripped into my right bicep and I swore, dodging behind a cubicle wall as my left hand instinctually went to cover the wound. I glanced at it – it looked more like a graze than a direct hit. Laura had likely never fired a gun before. Lucky for me, or I'd probably be dead.

I shoved the remaining two tapes into my jumpsuit's deep pockets and then leaned around the wall, squeezing off a shot that hit the woman in the shoulder. She screamed and dropped the gun, falling to the floor. But I didn't have time to finish her off; an alarm started blaring through the station just at that moment. Someone had heard her shooting.

I swore some more, glancing around the office for any sign of another exit, but there was only one way out. _Hell with it. _I went for the door that led to the central staircase, knowing the longer I stayed in one spot, the greater the chance I'd get boxed in. My injured arm severely protested the weight of the Vice, but I was a shitty left-handed shooter. I'd just have to make do – and hope not all hundred-or-so cops in this place would be blocking my way to the front door.

I made it to the top of the stairs before the first bullets started flying. I ducked down into a crouch, but didn't slow my progress. Shots pinged off the railing all around me; I fired blindly over my shoulder a few times, but didn't bother to see if I hit anyone. At this point, I just wanted to get out. I reached the main level and took off across the lobby, still keeping my head low. The receptionist screamed and ducked behind her desk as several more cops opened fire behind me.

I twisted around, steadying the Vice with my left hand, and squeezed off a few more shots. They mostly went wide, but at least it made people take cover. I used the brief opportunity to run out the station's front door. More bullets spider-webbed the glass behind me, but by that time I was running hard for Shaundi and the van. She opened the passenger door for me; I threw myself in just as more cops spilled out into the parking lot.

She put the van in reverse and squealed out of the parking space as I righted myself in the seat and slammed the door shut. She did a double-take at the ragged gash on my arm. "Geez, boss, what the hell happened?"

"Goddamn secretary," I growled, leaning out the window and firing into the mass of uniformed officers.

"A _secretary_?"

I heard the amusement in her voice, but I didn't think it was funny at all. And my head was still reeling from what I'd read in Julius' file. "Just fucking drive," I ordered.

"You got it." She slammed the van into gear and hit the gas, leaving the police station far behind us.

* * *


	7. Kenjutsu

**A/N:** I have to take a moment to thank _alice_the_raven_ for her IMMENSE help with the sword-fighting bits in this chapter. (She's a kendoka herself!) Kendoka - someone who practices "the way of the sword". Kenjutsu - the combative and ancient version of the art of sword-fighting. Tsuka - the haft of a katana.

* * *

I had learned a long time ago to always carry a katana when wandering through Ronin territory – or when going into any situation in which a Ronin might show up. They were experts at ambush, and experts at sword-fighting. If you weren't ready for them – if you didn't have your own sword readily available – they'd catch you in close quarters with their blade and then you'd have no chance in hell of getting out alive.

So I kept my sword up, my body ready, my gaze darting around the burning deck of one of the Heritage Festival's old junk boats. The air boiled in the heat from the flames; my black tank top stuck to me like a second skin and sweat ran down into my eyes. But I didn't dare take a second to wipe it away.

Kazuo Akuji had led me up here for a reason. There were plenty of places for him to hide and watch. Lots of obstacles to trip over. Several areas with unstable footing. Not to mention the fires, which were just big enough to burn someone alive in, if someone happened to fall into them – or be pushed into them.

He was waiting for me here, somewhere. Waiting for me to make a wrong step so he could strike. This was a perfect environment for an experienced kendoka. For someone who could block out extreme physical discomforts and emotions, yet remain vibrantly aware of their surroundings. For someone who could employ the art of _mu-shin_, or "empty mind", like Johnny'd told me, and react without conscious thought. For someone like Kazuo Akuji.

For me, it was virtually a death trap.

I'd been taking kenjutsu lessons from Johnny since first learning of the Ronin's deadly proficiency with swords, and practicing. A lot. But I was no expert. I still wasn't sure how I'd survived the fight against Shogo's second-in-command, though I had a good idea it had more to do with luck than my skill with a sword. And this Kazuo Akuji, he didn't fuck around. I'd seen him fight when he led the Ronin into our hideout two weeks ago… plenty of Saints had lost limbs that day. The memory still made me wince. After that fight I'd ordered _everyone_ to learn kenjutsu – Gat hadn't been happy about that.

Of course, if I could just kill the old bastard now and get it over with, we wouldn't have to worry about knowing how to fight with swords anymore. Who the hell actually fought with swords these days, anyway?

A cry from my right caused me to whirl around; Akuji came out of nowhere, his sword met mine in a mighty clash that threw me off-balance. I stumbled, barely fended off another blow, and tripped on an overturned chair behind me. I hit hard on my back and rolled just as Akuji's blade sliced through the chair leg and buried itself in the deck. I took the opportunity and kicked upwards, catching Akuji in the back. He lurched forward, losing his grip on his sword's tsuka.

I sprang to my feet; sweeping sideways with my own blade, aiming for Akuji's neck. He ducked at the last second, dropped to one knee, and punched out with a fist that landed in my diaphragm. I staggered backwards, doubled over, gasping. Akuji yanked his katana from the deck and came after me again. He was amazingly fast; it was all I could do to block his strikes.

The force of his repeated attacks drove me backwards. I struggled to breathe - the heat of the fires only made the feeling of suffocation worse. I kept tripping over various junk strewn all over the deck; several times I barely saved myself from losing an arm. The old gunshot wound on my right bicep and lingering pain in my ribs didn't help, either. My back finally hit the deck's railing on the other side of the boat and I ducked away as Akuji's blade sunk into the wood for a second time.

I came around with a fist to his jaw that knocked him down. But he kept hold of his katana as he fell, freeing it from its entrapment and using it to block my next sword swing – too easily, I thought. He twisted his blade around mine and then pushed upwards with a strong flick of his wrist.

My sword flew from my hand and I watched it arc high into the air, spinning end over end. It splashed into the ocean and sank. I looked back to Kazuo Akuji only to see him back on his feet, his katana sailing for my head. I raised my hands just in time, catching his fists. His dark eyes glared fiercely at me as he struggled to push the gleaming sword edge into my face. I held him back only with great difficulty; the old bastard was a helluvalot stronger than his frail-looking frame suggested. The ache in my nearly-healed cracked ribs turned into sharp, stabbing pains. I ground my teeth, refusing to give in.

Akuji suddenly clamped his hands over mine and took a step backwards. The force of my own pushing made me fall forward; he used my momentum to yank me toward him, then shoved me away as hard as he could.

My arms flailed, trying to regain my balance, but failed. I hit the deck again. Akuji advanced on me quickly; I scrambled away from his sword point, a little surprised despite myself. Truthfully, I hadn't imagined I'd end up in this position. But that didn't mean I didn't have a contingency plan…

Kazuo Akuji smirked, a light in his eye that reminded me of Johnny's comment about him being the boogeyman. I could see it in his face - the monster, the shadow of what he planned to do to me now that he thought he'd beaten me. "Did you _really_ think you could match my skill?" he sneered.

"No," I admitted, and reached back for the .44 I'd kept tucked in the back of my waistband and covered by my shirt. Luckily it had not fallen out during the sword fight. Luckily Akuji had never seen it before now, as I drew and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out over the water; Akuji grunted as the bullet punched into his chest. "I'm gonna cheat," I said, a little smile pulling at my mouth.

The leader of the fearsome Ronin dropped his sword and fell to one knee as the blood spread out, like a blooming flower, on the lapel of his suit. The surprise on his face quickly clouded over with anger. He looked up at me, right into the barrel of my gun.

"Finish it," he growled.

But that would be too easy. Too kind. And I didn't take orders from anyone anymore, least of all a sword-loving-old-fucker like him. Too bad I didn't have time to show him what kind of a monster _I_ could be. Though I suppose if he'd heard what happened to his son, he'd have some idea.

I got to my feet, keeping the gun trained on Akuji's head. I slid the toe of my shoe under his forgotten sword and kicked it into the air, then caught the tsuka in my free hand. I circled lazily around behind him, taking my time. Running the edge of his katana across the brass cap of one of the railing's posts so it made a nice, ominous ringing sound. Letting him wonder what the hell I was going to do to him. I thought of all the shit his gang had put my Saints through, what they'd done to Aisha, Johnny, me, and the rest of my guys who now had missing hands and fingers. I let the anger grow – fuck that _mu-shin_ shit – until it was a seething, boiling mass inside my chest. Like the fires that still raged around us, cooking the air, choking it, making the sweat roll down my temples.

I kicked out suddenly, slamming Akuji flat to the boat's deck, and made a quick, powerful downward stab with his sword. He screamed as the blade cut through the hole my bullet had already made. The sword tip bit into the wood below him; I made sure it was good and secure before letting up and pulling out my cell.

I dialed Wang's number, leaning casually on the tsuka as Akuji squirmed below me.

Wang's interpreter answered. "Are you all right? What's going on up there?"

"Put Wang on the phone," I said, ignoring his questions.

There was a brief pause, and then the old man's gruff and heavily-accented voice came through. "What is it?"

"Hey, Wang," I greeted cheerfully, "I want you to hear something." I crouched down next to Akuji and held the phone out to him. He shot me a deadly glare. If looks could kill… unfortunately for him, they could not. "Come on," I prodded friendlily, twisting the sword brutally into his wound, "be a good sport."

Sweat beaded on his forehead and he clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to keep silent. I smiled at him and dug the blade in a bit more, circling it, until even a man of his impressive control could no longer withhold the screams of agony. I made him writhe for a bit, until finally satisfied, I released the sword and stood again, putting the phone back to my ear. "You hear that, Wang?"

He was chuckling.

"You're welcome," I said, and then hung up. Part of the boat's decorative roof collapsed only feet from where I stood and I took several steps backwards, looking around the deck for the first time since arriving on it. This boat was doomed; crumbling under flames that continued to spread unhindered. I walked toward the nearest railing, having no desire to repeat my past experience with burning boats.

"When I escape," Akuji panted, and I stopped at the sound of his voice, looking over my shoulder to see him feebly reaching back in an attempt to pull out the sword, "the world… will not be big enough… for you to hide in."

The funny thing was, I believed him. I knew he'd follow through if he did somehow manage to escape. But he wasn't going to – he was going down with this boat.

"Luckily for me, you're going to burn to death in a few minutes," I said, and turned my back on him. I looked out at the water below me, to the sprawl of the marina along the coast. Burned alive and buried alive – fitting ends for father and son. And with the death of Kazuo Akuji, the Third Street Saints finally, once again, owned Stilwater.

Well, except for the Row, which was still under Ultor's control, but that would change. Anyone who crossed me paid, I made sure of that. Anyone who stood in my way got ran over.

I only had two rules…

"Your son never should have fucked with my friends," I said.

An explosion bloomed behind me. I ran for the rail, jumped onto it, pushed off it, just as more explosions tore the deck apart. I plunged into the ocean; the water was cool and refreshing – it closed over my head and muffled the roar of destruction above. I resurfaced amid flaming debris and started to make my way toward shore.

My little swim meant a new cell phone and a lot of time drying and cleaning my .44.

I found myself smiling anyway.

* * *


	8. Sanity

* * *

I always knew Dane Vogel would be trouble.

Ever since the day he'd walked into the hideout like he owned the place and offered us information about the Ronin, I'd expected him to double-cross us. I could see it in the way his beady little eyes sized me up, the way his gaze kept darting around our underground sanctuary with a mixed measure of disgust and greed.

I'd expected him to come back someday claiming I owed him a favor, being that he'd tipped me off – twice - and therefore helped the Saints take down the Ronin. At which point I'd tell him to shove that favor up his ass. I had not, however, expected him to try and wipe out my gang. I probably _should_ have expected that, considering Vogel once employed the Ronin for protection, then turned right around and practically handed them to us on a silver platter.

I'd thought he'd simply realized the Saints were unstoppable and had wanted to come out on the winning side. And now that the Saints were the only gang in town, he'd try to buy us, or own us, or sponsor us. At which point I would, again, tell him to shove it up his ass. But instead, he'd tried to get rid of us. And now I saw the whole picture.

He'd used me.

He'd used the Saints. He'd seen our efficiency and used it to his advantage, used it to clean up the city, to get rid of the other gangs and clear the way for further Ultor expansion. Then once our job was done, he'd planned to have his private army clean us up, too. It'd be all neat and proper for the press.

And how convenient that he'd been the only Ultor executive not present at the benefit gala on the company yacht. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain _he'd_ been the one who'd provided me the article about the party in the first place. Meaning he'd used me again. For his own personal dirty work.

It brought a bad taste to my mouth. Even worse, the feeling of being made a puppet reminded me of five years ago, after Julius had been arrested. After I heard Richard Alderman Hughes' speech about "salting the Earth". After I realized Hughes and Chief Monroe had used the Saints to do what the police had failed to do for years – clean up Stilwater. And then they'd tried to take us down, just like Dane Vogel.

But this time there was no Julius or Dex or Troy to fuck things up. This time I wasn't on a boat, and I wasn't going to let myself be blown up.

The Saints were here to stay, and Dane Vogel was going to die.

I might have been content to let Ultor work for us, might even have let Vogel live, if he hadn't sent his troops after me. Now there was no deal he could make that would save him.

My fingers closed around the joystick's trigger and the helicopter's rail guns came alive with a heavy whine, filling the window before me with bullets. It shattered in brilliant flashes of light and color, raining to the ground in a deadly shower of glass. I smiled at the thought of what Vogel must be thinking there in his office, where he thought he'd be safe. I imagined he'd be cowering behind his desk by now, whimpering in fear.

I wondered if he would try and run. It didn't matter. The Phillips Building was his last refuge in Stilwater, and I had my lieutenants already setting up a perimeter watch. Vogel wouldn't get very far if he tried to leave; my boys were ordered to apprehend him no matter the cost, and then wait for me so I could put a bullet in his head myself. They wouldn't let me down – they all knew better than to risk fucking up on this one.

I switched the helicopter over to hover autopilot and popped the emergency release on my door. It fell away with a hiss and plummeted fifty stories to the ground. I watched it fall, momentarily doubting the sanity of this plan. I took a deep breath, picturing the panicked expression that was about to cross Vogel's face, and used it to steel my nerves. I edged out of my seat, climbing carefully around the door frame and out onto the Masako helicopter's blunt nose.

It tilted slightly forward under my weight; I caught a glimpse of the ground and a nauseating wave of vertigo hit me hard. I almost lost my balance, righting myself just before slipping off the smooth, rounded hood. I closed my eyes briefly, gathering myself again before continuing.

The rotorcraft dipped down a little more as I slid forward a few steps, keeping my eyes locked on the broken window in front of me. I was starting to sweat. I swallowed hard, crouching in preparation to jump. _This was a very bad idea…_ I launched myself into the air, not giving myself any more time to debate the action, and landed hard in Vogel's office. I dropped into a roll to absorb the impact and came to a stop unceremoniously sprawled across the cold marble floor.

No sooner had I begun to congratulate myself on my brilliant method of getting around Vogel's guards than I heard a horrible sort of crashing, grinding noise behind me. I rolled onto my back and saw the Masako 'copter trying to come in through the window.

_Oh, shit._

The rotor blades sent a rain of glass down over me, then slammed into one of the building's support girders. The screech of metal on metal made my teeth tingle; the helicopter pitched forward as pieces of its blades went flying in all directions and I pressed myself flat to the floor, fully convinced the whole one-ton machine was going to crash right on top of me. The skids swept by just an inch over my nose; what was left of the blades caught on another girder and the helicopter swung upwards, then reared backwards, finally falling from the window like a rock.

It hit the ground far below and exploded into a giant fireball. The blast shook the whole building; the unbroken windows around me rippled and I felt the concussion through the rush of air that blew through the hole I'd made. I waited another second to be sure nothing else was going to crumble or explode, then rolled to my feet and took off my hat, shaking the glass from my hair. I brushed myself off, straightened my shoulders, and pulled the .44 from my waistband.

After the deafening noise of the helicopter and the boom of its crash, the silence of the expansive, minimalist office was almost painful. I gripped the Shepard in both hands and proceeded cautiously across the smooth gray floor. My footsteps echoed against the glass and marble, but I neither saw nor heard any sign of Vogel.

Maybe he'd run after all.

I moved up the stairs to my right, giving the looming Romanesque statue next to them a glare. Really, who needed massive sculptures like that in their office? Who needed _two floors_ in their office, for Christ's sake? Unless, of course, they were compensating for something…

I reached the office's second floor and stopped, staring across the flat, window-backed expanse to the ridiculously oversized marble desk and the diminutive man occupying the space behind it. He stood there as if he'd expected me to come blasting through his window all along.

But he was far from the cool, confident man who'd once barged fearlessly into our hideout. After the botched assassination attempt, our little car chase throughout the city, and the incident with the helicopter, he looked like hell. His usually disgustingly neat hair was ruffled, his expensive gray suit streaked with dirt, and a tightness around his eyes betrayed his anxiety. He didn't move from behind his desk as I approached, but he fidgeted. Mr. Vogel had dealt with plenty of gangs during his time with Ultor, I knew that just from the fact he hadn't already pissed his pants or bolted for the door. But he'd never dealt with anyone like me before.

He was only just now realizing that.

He swallowed visibly and cleared his throat as I reached the desk. His eyes went to my gun, then to the door, then back to my face. He tried to force a smile and failed. "Ah, Mr…," a strange look crossed his face, "I'm sorry, I don't think I ever got your name?"

He asked like I would tell him. And he even managed to sound genuinely apologetic. But his eyes kept darting toward the door.

I gave him a little smile. "Your soldiers ain't comin'," I said. "You're on your own here, Vogel. Just you and me. I made sure of that."

His face paled; he swallowed again. "Yes, well… no need to involve them, right? I'm sure you and I can reach some sort of –"

"No."

The one simple word shut him up as effectively as if I'd shouted it. He stared at me like he'd never come across anyone he couldn't make a deal with. Hell, he probably hadn't. I made a great show of checking my .44; opening the chamber, making sure it was loaded, spinning it, snapping the chamber closed again.

I glared at him over the top of my sunglasses. _Now_ he looked like he might piss himself. "You want me to give you a list of people who've pissed me off, Vogel?"

"I think there's been some misundersta-"

"Maero, that huge motherfucker who used to run the Brotherhood? I blew his head off. Shogo, the cowardly little Ronin bitch? Buried alive. Though I have to admit, that was really Gat's idea, but it was a good one. And Shogo's father? Burned him up. Alive. Mr. Sunshine? Filled him with lead. The General? Blew his ass up with a rocket launcher. Even that strung-out loser of a DJ called Veteran Child got what was comin' to him. You beginning to see a pattern here, Vogel?"

"I really don't think –"

"And then there's you." I moved around the desk and he retreated from me quickly, backpedaling toward the windows. He reached behind him and pulled a pistol, but I'd been ready and raised the .44.

He shook his head vigorously, dropping to his knees and throwing the gun away. "All right - let's not be too hasty here," he blurted, lifting his hands in surrender. "You're upset, you're frustrated," he glanced up, right into the barrel of my gun, and looked back to the floor with a grimace, "… and you've got a gun, which, you know, I'd _really_ like it if you would put that away."

He couldn't make a deal, couldn't run, couldn't rely on his private army, and didn't have the skills to fight me. He was down to his last card: begging. Begging for his life.

"You should have thought of that before you sent a team to wipe out my gang," I said in a low voice. I wanted to shoot him now, while he was on his knees and showing his true pathetic self.

"I _tried_ telling the Board that going after the Saints was a big mistake!"

"They should have listened to you," I growled, knowing that no matter what Vogel claimed, he'd always planned to get rid of us eventually. And anyway, the attack on the Saints was done _after _I'd killed the Board of Directors.

The lying son-of-a-bitch.

But he seemed to take my comment as progress in his favor somehow, because he got back to his feet, even looking a little relieved. "Believe me; right now I'm agreeing with you one-hundred-percent, but you have to look at the positives. You're alive, they're dead, and you have the Saints' number-one fan running Ul –"

I shot him. Point-blank, right in his lying mouth. The back of his head blew off; smattering the window with gore as the bullet punched through the glass and exited into daylight. The force of the shot threw Vogel's body backward; he crashed through the weakened window pane and plunged toward the pavement below.

I heard the dull thumps and cracks even from my vantage point as he jarred and bounced off the building a few times before finally splattering on the sidewalk. I moved to the edge of the window, leaning on one knee, surveying the mess he'd made with satisfaction. A few five-o's had even pulled up just in time to see him land. The cops were like tiny dots now, scurrying from their vehicles to go to his remains. Like there was any chance in hell he could have survived that fall – having his head blown off not withstanding.

I lifted my gaze to look out over the city and straightened, drawing in a deep breath. The air was cleaner up here and carried an underlying chill, but I could still smell the lingering tang of fresh asphalt, the earthy scent of sun-baked concrete, the reek of car exhaust, and behind it all the salty hint of an ocean breeze. The smell of Stilwater.

The smell of_ my_ city.

I smiled, feeling at that moment utterly invincible, utterly unstoppable, and completely in control. The sun sank low on the horizon, bringing twilight close behind it. The ultra-modern urban sprawl that had once been Saints' Row gleamed orange and pink below me. For a second – a brief second – I felt content… at peace.

But the shadow that had loomed over me for months soon returned. There were still three people lurking the streets of Stilwater who owed me explanations. So far, while I'd been busy re-establishing the Saints' position of power, they'd eluded me. That was going to change starting today. The Saints owned Stilwater now. We had access to an overwhelming number of resources. Soon there would be nowhere left for the traitors to hide.

The sound of footsteps jarred me from my thoughts and I turned with my gun out and ready.

Pierce appeared at the top of the stairs, saw me, and stopped short, throwing up his hands. Shaundi followed him so closely she ran into the back of him and bounced off, then frowned in confusion before looking over to see me.

I lowered the .44 and Pierce relaxed, his eyes drifting over my shoulder to the brain-splattered window behind me. His face of disappointment would have rivaled Gat's.

"We missed it?"

"Told ya," Shuandi quipped, holding out an open hand, "now pay up."

I put the .44 away again, knowing if the two of them had made it up here, Vogel's guards had been taken care of. "Where the fuck were you guys?" I demanded, though I wasn't in the least bit sorry I'd gotten to deal with Vogel myself.

"Traffic," Pierce said, rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"He's not joking," Shaundi put in. She walked lazily toward me, making a face as she noticed the fine spray of blood marring my newly purchased suit. "The roads have been blocked off."

That made sense. The police had been hot on my tail as I chased Vogel over here from the church. They'd lost me once I'd stolen the helicopter, but they probably hoped to catch me on the way out. They thought setting up road blocks would slow me down enough to keep me from escaping. And road blocks made me think of Johnny, because I knew how much he loved a bunch of stationary yet occupied five-o's. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed him.

"You see Gat out there?" I asked Shaundi absently as it rang.

"Ah, he's fine," she assured me, now moving over to study the broken window. "He's still out there killing cops."

"Figures."

He finally picked up. "What is it?" He sounded preoccupied and slightly out of breath. I heard shouting and sirens in the background.

"It's done, time to get outta there," I told him.

"You sure?" The rapid fire of an AK-47 blasted in my ear and I grimaced, pulling the phone away from my head. "Get the fuck off me!" Gat shouted, clearly audible through the phone's tiny speaker even from a foot away. The assault-rifle fire ceased and I put the phone back to my ear in time to hear him say, calmly, as if nothing had happened, "I mean, I'm not runnin' outta ammo any time soon."

I smiled in appreciation of his enthusiasm. "I'm sure. I'll see you back home."

"Later."

He hung up; I wondered how long it would actually take him to decide he'd killed enough cops and get back to Purgatory. I glanced out the window, heard the gathering storm of sirens at the base of the building, and dialed another number.

"Who ya callin' now?" Pierce asked.

"Our ride," I said.

* * *

Twenty minutes later we sat aboard Tobias' helicopter, flying high and unhindered above the swarm of police and mess of SWAT road blocks. I watched them scramble around below us; some were pointing at our helicopter and talking into their radios. I was sure they'd send their own aircraft after us eventually, but at this rate we'd be landed and inside Purgatory by then. And not even the FBI dared to hit us there.

We passed over several knots of fighting between police and other Saints; my boys were holding their own and doing well under Johnny's leadership. Gat himself stood between a pair of crumpled and flaming cop cars, assault rifle firing constantly at the next wave of officers attempting to move in on his position. He looked up at the sound of the 'copter, recognized us, and tossed me a salute.

I grinned down at him, returning it.

Things were going well. Just as I'd planned. And they'd only get better from here.

Pierce shifted impatiently in his seat behind me and I got the impression he'd rather be on the ground fighting alongside Gat. "So whadda we do now?" he asked.

I grunted and leaned back in my chair, my smile lingering. "This is our city," I said, looking out over it with a possessive surge of pride, "we do whatever the fuck we wanna do."

* * *


	9. Tactics

**A/N:** I was a bit unsatisfied with the in-game Dex "conversation", so I expanded it. Hope you don't mind!

* * *

I paced the length of the room I used as my office in Purgatory, walking back and forth in front of the humming aquarium, hands clasped behind my back, shooting deadly glares at the kid waiting anxiously in front of my desk. Johnny stood over by the open doors, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, also glaring at the kid.

"It's been three weeks, Brett," I snapped. "What the fuck is the problem?"

He shifted on his feet, nervously glancing from me to Johnny to the floor. "Uh, actually, sir… my name is Ben…"

"I don't give a fuck what your name is right now," I snapped, whirling to face him and causing him to flinch, "I'll remember it when you do something worth remembering!"

"Yeah," Johnny added, moving across the office to stand to the kid's right while still effectively blocking the path to the door. "I thought you said you could hack anything? Been three weeks now, and we ain't seen shit from you. Did you lie to us? Cuz you know, I really hate bein' lied to…"

Gat pulled a Vice 9 from his waistband.

"No," Ben blurted, his eyes going wide as he backed against the edge of the desk. "No, I didn't lie! I can hack… a lot of stuff, but Ultor's file encryption is – is – it's like trying to crack top-secret government documents or something!"

"Benjamin," I said lowly, not knowing if that was really his full name or not and not caring in the least if it wasn't, "I want you to tell me right now, honestly: can you or can you not decipher the files we copied from Vogel's computer?"

"Think hard," Johnny warned. "Bad things happen to muthafuckas who can't follow through on their promises."

The kid opened his mouth, but hesitated to answer. He'd paled considerably since the beginning of our conversation and was now looking a little sweaty. At seventeen he wasn't the youngest Saint I'd recruited, but he was the only one of his age I'd actually allowed to do anything important. And now I was beginning to regret that decision.

"I can do it," he whispered finally, nodding. "I can do it; I just need a little more time."

"How much more time?" Johnny asked.

"I'm getting tired of waiting, Benjamin," I said.

The kid swallowed hard. "I just need another week or two…" He saw the look on Johnny's face and quickly amended his estimate. "A week. I'll have it done in a week."

"Good," Gat said, cocking the Vice. "And if it's not done by then, I'm gonna shoot ya in the knee."

A horrified look crossed Ben's face; he glanced to me with huge eyes, as if expecting me to save him from Johnny's threat. I simply smiled and gave him a nod, because I totally agreed with Gat.

The kid looked like he might faint.

"Oh come on," Johnny drawled. "I've been shot in the knee with a shotgun. It ain't so bad."

I turned to look at Gat, lifting an eyebrow. I remembered when he'd gotten shot in the knee with a shotgun, and he hadn't acted like it wasn't so bad.

"What?" He shook his head. "I ain't sayin' in won't hurt like a muthafucka and make you limp the rest of your life, but it ain't gonna kill ya."

I rolled my eyes, turning back to Ben. "You got a week," I said. "If I can't read those files by then, I'm gonna let Gat shoot you, and then _I'm_ gonna kick your ass. Understand?"

He nodded wordlessly.

"Yo, boss!"

All three of us looked toward the door to see Pierce arrive, followed by a stranger in his late twenties who dressed too nicely to be a Saint. I reached back to grip my .44, but waited to draw. Gat was not so subtle; his Vice pointed at the stranger's head as soon as the man entered my office.

Pierce shot Johnny a glare. "Hey, what the fuck, man? Put that away!"

"Who the fuck is this?" Gat demanded, keeping his weapon level.

"This is Christian Young," Pierce said, somewhat defensively and with an undertone of exasperation. "He knows the code to decipher Ultor's files and wants to help us out. I thought, you know, you might want to meet him. And _not_ blow his head off."

I narrowed my eyes, glancing over Mr. Young critically. He had expensive clothes, carefully groomed hair, and too much cologne. All things that made me distrust a person. "And how does he know the decipher code?" I asked.

"Cuz he _works_ for Ultor!" Pierce said, as if it should have been obvious.

And it should have been. I pulled my .44 and joined Gat in aiming at Christian Young's head. The man held up his hands, taking a step backwards.

"Whoa, whoa!" Pierce moved closer to his guest, knowing better than to stand in between him and me, but still wanting to make a point. "What the hell, boss? I thought you'd be happy to find this guy!"

"The last Ultor piece-of-shit who came here to _help_ tried to kill us," I growled. "Or did you forget that already?"

"No," Pierce insisted, "this guy ain't like Vogel."

"Got any proof?" Johnny asked.

Pierce glared at both of us. "What, just because Shaundi ain't fuckin' him you don't trust him?"

Shaundi _was _currently working on an Ultor executive, using her charms to pry certain company secrets and plans from him. Admittedly, though, her progress had been slower than usual. The exec she'd chosen was a hard-baller. And I kind of got the impression she enjoyed his wining and dining. A little too much, probably. I'd have to talk to her about that.

"I don't trust anyone on the outside, Pierce," I finally said.

"Well at least give him a chance, man. I mean, what else you gonna do? Wait for Shaundi to get bored with the guy she's workin' on?" He gestured toward Ben, who still stood silently by my desk, hoping we'd forgotten about him. "Wait for what's-his-name over there to finally figure out the code? Come on. Christian can get you that information in a day."

I hesitated, considering. Loathe as I was to admit it, Pierce had a point. And anyway, if worse came to worst, we could always just kill the Ultor bastard and dump his body in the ocean. Or leave his decapitated head on the desk of Ultor's newest Chairman. That thought, at least, made me happy. I lowered my gun.

"All right, Mr. Young," I conceded. "What's your story?"

"Look," he started somewhat timidly, "just for the record, I never liked Vogel, either. He was always a jerk to me."

"Just get to the part where you're useful to us," I scowled.

He nodded, lowering his hands a bit before glancing toward Johnny and then raising them again. "I'm an accountant for Ultor," he explained. "I have access to almost all their encrypted files –"

"Almost all?" Gat interrupted. "That doesn't sound very helpful, does it, boss?"

I shook my head once. "Nope."

"Wait," Christian Young blurted, seeing Johnny get a better grip on the Vice, "I also know how to get you access to the files my password won't get."

"_That_ sounds a little more helpful," I said.

"Told you," Pierce muttered.

"And what's in it for you, Mr. Young?" I asked, crossing my arms. "What reason in hell do we have to trust you?"

He glanced toward Johnny again and licked his lips. "Well, I have no desire to get shot… or killed… or anything like that. And my mother lives in Shivington."

Gat shifted on his feet, getting impatient. "So?"

Young finally looked at me directly. "I know you guys started the fires there and I know you only hit certain buildings – drug labs or something, I heard – but the fire department just let the district keep burning. My mother's house was fine but…" he glanced around to everyone in the room before looking back at me, "but now I hear Ultor wants to bulldoze Shivington. Like what they did with Saints Row. They're telling the public it's because of the violence and fire damage… but it feels like they had it planned for a long time. Maybe they even paid off the fire department to do nothing when it started burning, I dunno. All I know is they're going to tear down my mother's house and leave her with nowhere to go. That house is everything to her. They won't even help relocate her. They haven't even told the Shivington residents what they're going to do yet!"

I was silent for a minute, trying to figure out what this Christian Young might want us to do about his little problem in exchange for his help. Luckily the accountant took our silence for apathy and spoke before I did.

"I know the Saints have no love for Ultor. That's why I want to help you out. Anything you can do to hurt them, set them back, delay the destruction of Shivington, is good for me. Do whatever you want with the information you retrieve, I don't care. Just do _something_. You're the only ones who have that opportunity."

Now I understood.

I smiled, stepping forward and extending a hand. The man warily took it and I shook it heartily. "Welcome to the club, Young."

"All right," Pierce cheered.

"Fuck," Johnny growled, reluctantly putting away his gun.

I grabbed Young's hand tightly and pulled him toward me, looking him right in the eye, my smile disappearing. "You fuck us over, though, and your mother being out on the streets will be the very least of your worries. You got me?"

He stiffened, staring at me. He searched my face, maybe trying to decide how serious I was. I was very fucking serious, and he must have seen that, because he nodded, also very seriously. "I understand," he whispered.

"Good." I released his hand and looked back to Benjamin, who winced as my eyes fell upon him. "You," I ordered, "make yourself useful for once and help Young out."

"Yes, sir," he croaked.

"Pierce," I said, looking to my lieutenant next, "show our new friend where to get to work."

"You got it, boss."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later I stood in my office again, alone this time, shuffling through a huge stack of papers on my desk.

Ultor's secured files.

Or at least some of them. But the information in this first batch of hacked documents alone made my head spin, and my once-dismal opinion of Mr. Christian Young went up a notch. I stopped shuffling at the sight of an employee phone list and pulled it out, lifting my eyebrows. I had been looking for _that_ for a long time now… ever since I recovered the recorded conversations between Julius, Dex, and Troy from the police station. Julius' police file had listed a phone number for Dex, but when I'd tried to call it a recording said the number had been disconnected.

Dex wasn't stupid. If he could be certain of anything these days, he'd know I'd try to find him eventually. He'd know it was only a matter of time…

I found his name; followed the line to his extension, and smiled, pulling out my cell phone. I'd been waiting for this day for months; I wasn't going to waste any more time.

I set the employee list back on the stack of papers as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. I began to pace again, getting frustrated. I told myself Young would know where to find Dex's office if the little bastard didn't pick up –

"Urban Planning, this is Dex."

His familiar voice sent a predatory thrill rushing through me. He'd been hiding all this time, trying to avoid me, but our game of cat-and-mouse was over. Right now, I had the advantage. And I was going to use it.

"Dex," I said, his name twisting wickedly on my lips. "You're one hard motherfucker to find, you know that?"

Silence. Just long enough I thought he might have hung up. "Playa," he finally drawled, sounding like an old friend. Sounding like he did in the old days when he and I were still on the same side. "Good to hear your voice."

"Yeah, I bet," I scowled. "You didn't think I'd forget about you, did you? Didn't think I'd forget about what you did to the Saints?"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Dex snapped back, and the level of his sudden defensiveness surprised me. "I didn't do shit to the Saints and you know it."

"Like hell," I countered immediately. "You knew Troy was a cop and didn't say shit to the rest of us. Didn't do shit about it. You shoulda capped that motherfucker a long time ago!"

"Yeah? And what good would that have done?"

I gave a snort of disbelief, holding up my fingers to count one by one, as if Dex could see them. "Maybe Julius wouldn't have got arrested. Maybe the other twenty or so guys the fucker Troy put in jail wouldn't have got arrested. Maybe I wouldn't have gone to meet Hughes on his yacht. Maybe I wouldn't have got _blown the fuck up_, you wouldn't be working for some jerk-off corporation, and the Saints would never have lost their control of Stilwater. Maybe I'd still have _five years of my life_ back."

Dex let out a low chuckle. "Oh, I see. You want to blame _me_ for everything that's happened." He scoffed. "I thought you were smarter than that, Playa. I heard you broke into the police station and stole some tapes. You got the conversation right there, you've heard it. Julius was never serious about the Saints. He never wanted to own the city; he just wanted to clean it up. He was more a cop-in-disguise than Troy. Least Troy felt some guilt about what he did. Julius…" Dex trailed off, heaved a sigh. "Julius was the first to drop his flags, Playa. He sold everyone else out to save himself. To be able to walk away. To be able to live a normal life again. He betrayed you, Playa. He betrayed all of us. Without him, without _you_, the Saints didn't have a chance. I was lucky to get out when I did."

"You're still a fucking sell-out," I growled, my initial anger coming back full force. But now it was backed with an even greater rage toward Julius. I was going to find that man… if it took me years, I was going to find him. He'd destroyed everything I thought I knew, everything I'd worked for, everything I'd believed in, and on top of it all, stolen five years of my life….

"And what else was I supposed to do?" Dex demanded heatedly.

"Shoot Troy," I said simply.

"Look, I don't blame you for the way you feel –"

"Did you know about the bomb?" I asked, tired of listening to his excuses.

"What? No. No, of course I didn't. Are you kidding? I may have wanted out, Playa, but I never would have done anything like that."

"But you helped bulldoze Saints Row. Helped renovate the church. Doesn't sound like you much cared for the Saints, either, Dex."

"I think I liked it better when you kept your mouth shut," he bit off, his tone suddenly sharp.

"And I liked it better when you weren't such a pussy," I growled back. "Don't worry, Dex, I'll be coming to see you real soon." And then I hung up.

I stood there for another long minute, fuming, my hand clenched around my phone. Of all the people I wanted to make pay for what happened five years ago - and what had happened since - Dex was the one uncertainty. Until I'd learned that he'd known about Troy being an undercover cop, I had no proof he'd done any actual wrong against the Saints.

But now I was certain. He'd never been a true Saint. He was just what he appeared to be: a sell-out, a fake, a traitor. His loyalty was with Ultor now, and that made him a problem that needed to be dealt with.

My cell phone chimed, buzzing in my hand. I looked down to see a text message displayed across the screen. I wasn't surprised to find it was from Dex. I _was_ surprised, however, by what it said: _don't do anything rash, playa. if you want julius, i know where he is. meet me at the church at 6pm and i'll tell you. _

I grunted, shaking my head, and deleted the message. So I _had _scared him. Good. I wanted the little shit to be scared. I wanted him jumping at noises, looking over his shoulder, dodging the shadows. I wanted him to expect me to take a helicopter through his window like I had with Vogel. And if he thought giving me Julius would keep me from taking vengeance out on him, he was wrong.

But… that didn't mean I wasn't going to meet him at the church and let him tell me where Julius was. I checked my watch. It was almost three o'clock. That gave me three hours to make sure I wouldn't be walking into some kind of trap.

* * *


	10. Epitome

* * *

I sat in my shiny black Hammerhead at fifteen till six, waiting. I'd parked a few blocks away from the church - the spire loomed like a tombstone off to my left, but I didn't like looking at it. It was nothing like the church I'd known as a new recruit. Nothing like the base of operations it'd used to be five years ago. Now it was just another symbol of Ultor's mission to ultimately restructure all of Stilwater.

At its core, the company was no better than the gangs it condemned. Its sole purpose, after all, was control. Control of the city. Control of the population. Taking territory. Taking money.

Having power.

The Phillips' Building jutted up into the night on my right and my gaze kept wandering over to it, lingering on the window I'd blown out only a few weeks ago. It had been repaired already; Ultor had wasted no time in covering up that incident. They had moved on quickly, hoping the public would soon forget how easily the leader of a lowly, violent gang had wiped out their entire Board of Directors and then assassinated their Chairman in his own office.

Another common rule between them and us, it seemed: Show no weakness.

I sighed, pulling out the Vice I'd brought with me and taking it apart to do another cursory inspection and cleaning. Ultor had named a new Chairman the very next day. Fucking corporation. I still needed to set up a meeting with the new figurehead; I wanted to see what kind of man he was. Wanted to see if he needed to be dealt with, too.

But for now, I had more pressing business.

I saw Johnny, Shaundi, and Pierce approaching in the review mirror and began putting the Vice back together again. I generally preferred the .44, but in situations where I anticipated needing to reload more quickly, I always took the Vice.

Gat came up to the open driver's side window. "You're clear, boss."

I lifted one eyebrow as Shaundi and Pierce joined him. "You sure?"

"Well, yeah." He shrugged. "We didn't find shit in a ten-block radius. Toby took a 'copter up an' did an aerial sweep, but he didn't find shit, either. It could still be a trap, but I can't imagine what that little weasel could come up with that we wouldn't be able to find."

"You searched the church, too?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You didn't find any bombs?"

Johnny gave a snort, shaking his head. "No. Don't have to worry about that this time."

"Good." The three of them stepped back as I swung open the car door and got out. I shoved the Vice into the back of my waistband and noticed all three of them looking restless. "You got somethin' you wanna say?" I asked.

"You sure you don't want me to set up on one of these roofs?" Johnny blurted, as if he'd been waiting for me to ask. "I still got that sniper rifle; I know a good spot from that time we tried to off Vogel –"

"There aren't any bombs," I said.

"That doesn't mean -"

"So I can handle anything else." I shouldered between him and Pierce, heading toward the church.

"Boss," Pierce called after me, "what if he brings the calvary with him?"

"That's why I have you three," I said over my shoulder. "Keep a look out. You see anything suspicious, take action." I stopped suddenly, turned to face them. "But I swear to Christ, any of you take away my kill and I'll put a bullet through your head. I ain't fuckin' around."

I turned on my heel before any of them could reply and stalked off down the darkened street.

* * *

The church was quiet and empty when I entered it; the heavy thump of the door closing behind me echoed up into the vaulted stone ceiling. I kept the Vice ready in both hands and did a quick search of all visible nooks and crannies, just in case Dex or any of his Ultor cronies had come in after my lieutenants had left. But there was no one else there.

I was alone.

I took a deep breath of the smell. It still reeked of new carpet and new wood, all overlaid by the lingering, nauseating odor of incense. Candles lined the half-walls framing the alter, most of them lit, and the flickering light threw dancing shadows into the corners. I craned my neck upwards, peering into the heavily shadowed balcony, and my lip twitched with a sneer. I could barely make out the glimmer of the plaques detailing the history of the area, detailing the criminal exploits, ruthlessness, and evil of the Saints… the plaques bearing recordings of Julius' own voice… the epitome of hypocrisy…

The bell at the top of the spire gonged suddenly and I jumped, then swore at myself, spinning away from the sight of the plaques and pacing up and down the long, carpeted center aisle. The bell rung again, and again; a deep, resonating sound I could almost feel in my chest. My skin still prickled with the after-effects of adrenaline and I sucked in a few more deep breaths, trying to slow my heart, trying to regain control.

Jesus, I hated the smell of incense…

The bell chimed six times and then fell silent once more. I checked my watch. Six o'clock exactly. I stopped pacing, turned to face the door, and waited. The silence made my ears ring.

At seven minutes after six, I began to think I'd been played. I started to pace again, deciding I'd give the bastard three more minutes to get there, and then I was going to take a tank through the Phillips' Building's front doors. I'd always needed an excuse to use the Bear I'd stolen from those Masako fuckers, anyway.

The sound of the door opening and closing behind me made me smile. A warm rush of anticipation washed away my frustration and impatience and replaced it with a cold, calculating calm. The calm I felt before pulling the trigger. My hand tightened around the Vice grip, but I left it at my side as I turned around.

"The fuck took you so long?" I demanded, and then froze as I saw the person I'd expected to be Dex. It was not Dex. The calm vanished beneath a numbing wave of shock, followed quickly by rage. It was all I could do not to put a bullet between his eyes right then.

_Too easy, too quick…_

"You ain't Dex," Julius said as he walked casually up the aisle toward me, looking strange in the absence of purple and not seeming at all concerned that he now faced a man he'd tried to blow up.

"Neither are you." I strangled the words past a constricted throat. My hands trembled with the effort of restraining my trigger finger as he walked closer and closer, my mind already racing with things to do to Julius Little that could possibly repay him for what he'd put me through.

He squinted as he looked me up and down and I briefly wished I'd worn one of my suits. That would have made a lasting impression on the double-crossing bastard; would have showed him how far I'd come since waking up from the coma he'd put me in. I would have loved to have seen his reaction… but… it wouldn't have done to ruin another one. Shaundi had recently taken to forbidding me from wearing them when she thought there was a chance I'd come back to Purgatory smeared in blood. As annoying as that was, she did have a point. Replacing my wardrobe every few weeks got expensive.

"You look different," Julius said finally. "Did you –"

"I didn't do shit to my hair!" I barked, bringing up the Vice to point in his face, unable to restrain myself any longer. I was sick of people asking me that. Of course I looked different, and it wasn't my hair. It was all the burn scars marring my skin. The burn scars _he_ gave me.

"You pullin' a gun on me?" He actually sounded surprised.

My lips twisted into a wicked smile. "Well," I drawled, "I didn't have time to plant a bomb in the church, so this'll have to do."

Something flickered across his face just then and I realized he hadn't known I knew about his secret. Well, now he knew. And now he properly appreciated his situation. "You don't know what the hell you talking about," he said, his casual tone suddenly serious.

"Why don't you educate me?"

"I don't gotta explain shit to you!" Julius snapped, his deep voice echoing through the church. He sounded like the boss I used to listen to. Like the man I used to respect… the man I used to trust…

"This is where we're going to have to agree to disagree," I said evenly, my glare never wavering, the Vice steady in my hand.

"Why don't you just put the gun down," he tried, like a parent to a stubborn child. "We both know you're not going to use it."

"Not yet," I snarled, and then I stepped forward and pistol-whipped him across the face.

The blow sent him to the floor with a grunt; he tried to roll away but I planted a foot on his chest, bringing the gun across his face a second time, and then again, and again. I let the rage course through me, let it power my arm, let the thought of what Julius had done to the Saints - to me - fuel the rage. Five years of my life… he'd been almost like a father to me… and he'd tried to kill me to save himself without a second thought.

He was our _leader_, for Christ's sake. He thought he could just walk away? Blow me up and act like nothing ever happened? Act like the Saints never existed? And then to tell me I didn't have the balls to shoot him…

I cocked the Vice.

"Stop!" he yelled, then coughed on blood, turning his head to spit a wad onto the carpet.

"Never thought I'd hear you beg, Julius," I sneered.

"I'm not beggin'," he shot back, "I'm tryin' to talk some sense into you. Dex wanted us in the same place."

That thought had formulated somewhere in the back of my mind long ago, but at the moment I didn't give a shit about anything except taking my revenge. "Yeah? Why'd he want that?"

The stained glass window to my right suddenly shattered; I brought the Vice around to face it only to see a familiar metal canister clatter to the floor at my feet.

A smoke grenade.

For a second I just stared at it, unwilling to delay my conversation with Julius. The screech of arriving tires and deep rumble of approaching tanks jarred me from my stupor and I stepped off of Julius.

"Can we kill each other later?" he asked.

I scowled, reaching down to help him up. If my own crew wasn't allowed to kill him for me, I sure as hell wasn't going to let the Masako soldiers get him. The smoke billowed from the grenade and wafted toward the ceiling, snaking around our legs and swiftly making it hard to see anything.

The sharp crack of a sniper rifle punctuated the growing chaos outside and I felt slightly reassured. At least Johnny had set up like he wanted. And Shaundi and Pierce and some more of my guys would be out there, too. They'd distract the Masako team long enough for Julius and me to get away.

"This way," I told Julius, motioning toward the back of the church just as another grenade sailed through the broken window. This one was not as benign as the first – it carried tear gas. I threw my arm over my mouth and nose and double-timed it to the rear exit, Julius close behind me.

The sniper rifle cracked again, and again. Now there was lots of shouting. The church's front doors burst open and an orange-clad, gas-mask-wearing commando team poured in; the leader barking orders as they fanned out, assault rifles held at the ready.

I didn't wait for them to see us. I fired over my shoulder as we ducked through into the church's storage area, forcing them to take cover long enough for us to disappear inside. Their returning rifle fire peppered the door as it shut behind us, sending wood splinters flying. We made our way quickly around the various church decorations and extra pews, hearing the sniper rifle working again.

"That your guy?" Julius asked, shoving a fake plant out of his way as he struggled to keep up with me.

"It's Gat," I said.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

My cell phone rang as we reached the door to outside. "Little busy right now, Shaundi," I quipped.

"Gat's covering the back exit for you," she said quickly, not wasting time with come-backs or pleasantries. "You'd better go fast, more are coming around."

"Way ahead of you," I said and then hung up. "Let's move," I said to Julius. He gave a nod and we bolted out the door, sticking to the shadowed wall as we jogged down the alleyway toward the open street. A Masako soldier rounded the corner suddenly and skidded to a halt when he saw us. He raised his rifle at the same time I raised the Vice, but another echoing shot from Johnny put him down.

"Nice," I muttered, stepping over the still-twitching body and leading Julius straight back to where my Hammerhead was parked. "Get in," I said, taking the driver's seat. To my surprise, Julius did as I said. Maybe he thought going with me would be better than being shot or arrested by the Masako team.

A bad decision on his part.

"Nice ride," he commented as he climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.

I turned the ignition and revved the engine as I pulled away from the curb. I glanced over to him, at his bloodied face, and then to my nice white interior. "Just don't touch anything," I growled.

* * *


	11. Vengeance

* * *

"Yeah, I think we lost 'em," Julius said, twisting in his seat to look behind us. I checked the review mirror and confirmed his observation; the wailing sirens had faded into the distance and there was no more glare of flashing lights against the brick and blacktop.

I glanced sideways to see him roll down his window and spit more blood. He made a face, reaching into his mouth and pulling out a tooth. "Jesus, Playa," he muttered, tossing the molar before rolling up the window again.

Now there were bloody fingerprints on the inside of my door.

I jerked the wheel hard right to turn into the museum drive, roaring down the short road and braking suddenly to a stop in front of the Greek-style building. I had tried to go back to Purgatory after leaving the church, but the Masako bastards had predicted that and been ready with tanks, roadblocks, and helicopters. If not for a few well-placed rockets courtesy of Pierce, we wouldn't have made it out of Saints' Row at all.

It had been Julius' idea to go to the museum district. He'd claimed to know the area well – said the winding streets and alleyways would give us ample opportunity to lose our pursuit. He was right… but now that we'd lost Ultor's army, I wasn't going to waste any more time in getting some answers.

The museum was as good a spot to stop as any. It was virtually abandoned this late in the day; the shadows cast by the looming ruins around the amphitheater provided good enough cover. I got out of the car and stalked down the hill. I have no idea what made me think Julius would follow; maybe it was the impression he gave of still not taking me seriously. He still thought of himself as my savior, my boss, the one in control, the one pulling the strings. He still thought of me as a pawn, to be moved around however he wished.

He was about to find out how drastically things had changed. I pulled the Vice from my waistband as I heard his door open and shut; heard his footsteps on the grass behind me.

I reached the bottom of the theater and glanced around at the stone bleachers etched into the surrounding hill. Like a coliseum… a coliseum for execution…

Our footsteps on the flat rocks echoed softly into the twilight, the only sound except for the crickets and now-far-away blare of sirens. I expected my boys would keep the cops busy long enough for me to finish with Julius.

"Just like old times, Playa," he said suddenly.

His casual tone snapped my last thread of restraint. "Yeah." I spun around and shot him.

Julius staggered as the bullet punched into his chest, then stumbled and fell. He stared down at the ragged hole, lifting one hand to touch it as if he couldn't believe it was real. "Jesus," he breathed, glaring up at me, "I thought we were past this shit."

"Not by a fucking long shot," I snarled, advancing on him with my gun still raised.

He drug himself backwards as I approached, shaking his head in exasperation. "Don't you get it? The Saints didn't solve a goddamn thing. Drugs were still getting pushed, innocent people were still getting killed…" His back hit the base of a pillar and he leaned against it, one hand still covering the bullet wound, the blood seeping between his fingers. "All we did was turn into Vice Kings that wore purple."

I stared at him. It was like I didn't know him – had never known him. How could this be the same man who had once delivered powerful speeches about taking back the Row? "Jesus Christ," I muttered, "you sound like a pussy."

"I _sound_ like someone who isn't a sociopath!"

"You wanna be the killer with a conscience?" I snapped, furious that he'd dare to label _me_ a sociopath when _he _was the one who'd made me, when I'd been doing _his _bidding, when _he'd_ been the one who'd betrayed everyone who believed in him… "Fine! Drop your flags and write a book like King. But you never shoulda came after _me_!"

"You sayin' if I'd of asked you to walk away, you would have said yes?"

"Fuck no!" I spat, not understanding how any of this could be coming out of his mouth. I'd busted my ass for the Saints; suffered a lot, survived a lot, risked a lot – Johnny had a permanent limp and Lin was dead – how could he expect any of us to walk away after everything we'd put into the Saints? "This is _my_ city!" I said vehemently, beginning to pace back and forth in front of him. He was crazy if he thought I would ever give that up.

Julius gave a disappointed grunt. "Jesus. You haven't learned a goddamn thing."

"Wrong." I faced him again, pointing the gun at his head. "I've learned bein' in charge is better than bein' a bitch who keeps his mouth shut and does what he's told." I shook my head, my tone turning cold. "Your time's over, old man."

He gave me a strange look, and despite the blood slowing spreading across his shirt, his eyes were unusually bright. Maybe he had finally come to realize that I wasn't fucking around, that I was going to kill him, no matter what he said. "What's happened to you?" he finally asked.

_I got betrayed by the man who'd saved my life, who'd given me a purpose, who'd made me believe in something…_

"I woke up," I said curtly, shrugging. Literally and figuratively.

"You _owe_ me, Playa," Julius said lowly, all business now. "If it weren't for me, you would have died on that street corner."

"If it weren't for you I wouldn't have been in a goddamn coma!" I shouted.

"I guess that makes us even," Julius said, looking me right in the eye, daring me.

I lifted the Vice and put a bullet in his head. Blood splattered the pillar behind him as his body jerked and then sagged, limp and lifeless. The gun blast echoed around the amphitheater before rolling away over the grassy hills. And then everything was silent.

"Not really," I growled.

I stood there for a second more, letting it sink in that it was over – he was dead. Then I turned my back on him and walked away into the setting sun, back to the car.

* * *

I took a long, winding, round-about way back to Purgatory, switching cars a few times at my various cribs and hijacking the last one to make sure the cops were off my back. It was well past dark by the time I finally pulled up outside the club; to my relief it looked quiet. At least there were no FBI trucks or SWAT vehicles in the parking lot. Just cars I recognized.

I left the piece-of-junk car I'd stolen on the side of the road and crossed the pavement to the main entrance, nodding to the two guys posted as guards and taking the elevator down to the main level. As soon as I rounded the corner to the top of the stairs, a hush washed over the room, rippling from one side to the other. Shaundi stood by the bar; she reached over and turned off the blaring radio and the hideout was plunged into eerie silence. All eyes looked at me.

They all knew I had gone to find out about Julius. Likely Shaundi, Pierce, or Gat had already broken the news that Julius himself had shown up at the church. And now everyone was eager to know how things had turned out.

I kept them in suspense for a moment longer, making my way leisurely down the stairs to the middle platform to stand in front of the purple-lighted angel statue. I crossed my arms, unable to help the smile from breaking out across my face. "Julius Little is dead," I said.

A cheer went up; guns were raised, glasses were emptied. Shaundi turned on the radio again, louder than before. The nearly endless party in Purgatory surged on again with renewed energy. Not that any of them had really understood the full impact of Julius' betrayal. None of them had been a member of the original crew. No one except Gat… the only one who could really know what I was feeling at the moment. Still, the gang's positive reaction to the news assured me of their loyalty, so I let them have their fun.

Johnny wove through the whooping, gyrating masses below and walked up the stairs to meet me. "Seriously?" he asked above the music, shouting to be heard. "Julius is really dead?"

I nodded.

"Holy shit."

"What, you didn't think I could take him?"

"No, I just thought… it would be harder, I guess."

I shrugged. "He went out like a bitch."

Johnny nodded. "Well… he wasn't the man he used to be."

"No," I agreed wholeheartedly. "No, he wasn't."

"You gonna join the party or what?"

"In a minute. I have another announcement to make."

"You got it." Johnny reached around and grabbed his shotgun, firing a round toward the ceiling. The nearest people let out barks of alarm and ducked, some even dove for cover. Shaundi abruptly snapped off the radio again, and then I had everyone's full attention for the second time that night.

"You all know my rules," I began, speaking loudly to make sure even those in the back could hear. "No one fucks with me, and no one fucks with the Saints!"

A round of whoops and cheers followed that statement and I nodded to them appreciatively, then continued. "When I first gathered you all together, the Saints were the laughing stock of the city. Now, we _own _Stilwater." Another vociferous round of cheers broke out. I lifted my hands to quiet them. "Everyone who dared disrespect us got put down. Anyone who stood in our way was crushed. The traitorous back-stabber Julius Little got what was comin' to him –"

More cheers erupted, along with an enthusiastic 'hell yeah' from Johnny, but I simply kept talking, and everyone quickly fell silent again.

"But… our job ain't over yet. There's still two muthafuckas out there who betrayed us: Troy Bradshaw and Dex. I want them fucking dead."

Thunderous cheers filled the room; rowdy chants of 'Long live the Saints' accompanied rifles raised high. They were as excited to end this once and for all as I was. I gave them another satisfied nod. "So go out and find those bastards. Bring them here. We'll show them some good ol' fashioned Saints hospitality."

There was a rush of bodies as nearly everyone in the club streamed past me; eager to start on the hunt and be the one I'd highly reward for bringing me Troy or Dex first. When they were gone, Purgatory echoed with ghostly silence, and only myself, Gat, Shaundi, and Pierce were left standing amid a mess of discarded cups and beer bottles.

Johnny gave a grunt. "You sure know how to motivate people."

I smiled, heading toward the bar for a drink. "Yeah."

* * *

THE END.

* * *

(**A/N**: I will be continuing this once Saints Row 3 is released, of course. Also I have a few single chapter stories in mind dealing with what I think might happen to Dex and Troy, as well as another random one, so look for those sometime in the future. I know a few of you wanted to see the Boss hook up with Shaundi, or at least see the scene where she was kidnapped by Veteran Child. I did not have them hook up in this fic because the Boss is still angry with her for not going to burn down the Samedi farm with him, heh. (He was insulted that she'd rather hang with her ex at the frat party than go cause mayhem with him...) I might eventually write the Veteran Child scene though since I know more than one of you wants to see it (and he did have some feelings in that one, loathe as he is to admit it). Bear with me, I have a lot of other stuff to write, but I'll definitely keep it in mind! Thank you everyone for all of your awesome reviews, comments, feedback, and encouragement! It was great fun to write this fic and I enjoyed seeing what other SR fans thought of it! Thanks for reading!)


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